


always the sidekick (never the superhero)

by mirrorkill



Series: always the sidekick [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, Blackmail, Community: beacon_hills, Complete, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Frottage, Halloween Costumes, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Identity Porn, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Pining, Reveal, Sexual Content, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sidekicks, Superheroes, TV Tropes, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, kissing under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorkill/pseuds/mirrorkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yup. Stiles has successfully managed to convince himself that nothing is worth the indignity of the costume and he's reaching to pull the skintight outfit over his head when his phone chimes. He looks down.</p><p>  <i>Don't even think about it, Stilinski.</i></p><p> (Wherein Stiles wears spandex, Derek does too, and "convince" doesn't mean what Lydia thinks it means.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Okay, this is it. The absolute limit. Stiles has officially had it up to _here_. Wherever _here_ is. Here is somewhere really high, okay? A mystical, high location of high…ness.

Man, the gray tights to the costume are so tight that there can't be any blood getting to Stiles' brain. Nope, Stiles can't do this. No way. Stiles even managed to smack himself in the forehead when pulling the underpants on over the tights and that probably had done some major damage to his brain.

He stalks across the carpet of his bedroom, angrily muttering to himself. Seriously. What the _hell_ had Stiles done to Lydia to deserve this indignity? _Nothing,_ that's what. Except get two marks higher than her on one physics pop test earlier in the year. Was Lydia punishing him for _that_? Just because he knew the answer to the bonus credit question when she didn't? His dad was the freaking _Sheriff_. If Stiles _didn't_ know the penal violation codes backwards, it would have just been weird.

Nope, that's the only thing he can think which could have earned him Lydia's ire. It's ridiculous and besides, he can't be swayed. What happened with Mason can't be as bad as he's remembering, anyway. There are _plenty_ of other Dereks in the world that he might have been talking about, right? Right??

Yup. Stiles has successfully managed to convince himself that nothing is worth the indignity of the costume and he's reaching to pull the skintight outfit over his head when his phone chimes. He looks down.

_Don't even think about it, Stilinski._

Stiles pauses, mouth going slack. "And Lydia says she _isn't_ psychic?" he mutters at the screen, before casting an askance look at the outfit. Where the hell is he supposed to keep his phone in this thing?

His phone chimes again.

_There's a pocket in the cape for your phone._

Stiles stares at the message.

 _And the answer is no,_ a third one chimes in. _I'm not psychic._

Stiles scowls down at his phone in disbelief and types back: **I think the lady protesteth too much.**

_Get down here. In costume. Or I WILL show everyone THE VIDEO. And there's only one Derek that we know, Stiles._

Even though she delivered the threat when she delivered the costume, Stiles flinches again. It's a really low blow because she _knows_ how he feels about Derek. Or she suspects. Or she has video evidence where one really hot guy, now pack member, had been squeezing Stiles' ass and Stiles had moaned Derek's name, if you have to be pedantic about it. Ugh. Lydia's evilness is going to land him in real trouble one day, he can sense it. **Okay. But if people laugh, I'm going to show them THE PHOTO.**

 _I was a cute little orphan Annie, Stiles, thank you very much,_ is the text he gets back, but it's false bravado. He saw her expression of mild terror when he flung it out as a threat in person.

Well. She yawned in his face. But that's _Lydia_ for mind-numbing terror.

Ugh, whatever, Stiles is worked up over nothing. It's just one night. And if their history has anything to do with it, they won't have to party for any longer than an hour before something supernatural shows up to ruin their day. It's only a _temporary_ public humiliation, going outside in this outfit. Besides, it's probably character-building. There's not actually worse that could happen to him than being seen in this much bright spandex, anyway.

* * *

 

Famous last words, as it turns out.

Some of Stiles' humiliation dies a little at the first sight of Lydia in her costume, which is a nice start to the evening. Not that her costume is embarrassing – far from it. But he'd been buoyed by the fact that most people would be too busy looking at her and her curve-hugging black spandex cat-suit to notice him.

Both of their outfits came with masks, if worst comes to worst, but Stiles knows how he looks on the dance floor. There is no mask in the whole world that can obscure his real identity. There is no reality in which Stiles is the hero.

Nope, he's just perma-stuck as the sidekick. In a really ridiculous yellow cape, which he's planning to "accidentally lose". When it comes to capes, Stiles is in the Edna 'E' Mode school of thought. Not that he's _planning_ to be anywhere near a vortex or missile fin or a jet turbine, but then, Stiles never had werewolves, banshees or demon foxes on his to-do list either.

"I can't believe you managed to convince Derek to let us throw another Halloween party at his loft, especially after the one two years ago," Stiles says, opening the Jeep and extending a gallant arm out that she ignores in favor of jumping gracefully onto the sidewalk. She beams at him and he rolls his eyes, leaning past her to lock the door.

"Convince?" Lydia says. "That's a funny use of the word."

Lydia starts walking towards the loft at a speed which keeps her ahead of him, but he can see the curve of a smirk on her face.

"Please tell me you got Derek's permission to throw the party in his loft?" Stiles calls after her retreating back, even though now he can see that Derek's soccer mom car isn't in its usual spot and he already knows what the answer is.

Lydia just laughs. Stiles sighs and follows her in. He might as well have some fun before Derek rips their throats out. He's feeling almost optimistic about it, feeling the already-playing music thrumming through the building's woodwork as they head up the steps, and he's even kind of feeling the cape as it billows dramatically behind him – and then he steps into the party and all the annoyance he'd originally felt at seeing his red, green and yellow costume comes flooding back.

"Lydia, you get back here and tell me why _all the wolves get to be Batman and I'm the only freaking Robin._ Right now!"


	2. Chapter 2

Contrary to popular belief, Derek's not an idiot. Even though he voluntarily bit Isaac Lahey. Even though he voluntarily bit _Jackson Whittemore._ So when he gets a phonecall saying his planning permission for the new house he wants to build on the location of the old Hale house mysteriously has a missing signature, barely hours after he saw Lydia present Danny Mahealani with a suspiciously bulging envelope? He can put two and two together.

Especially when Kira and Scott sag in relief in unison when Derek announces he's going to leave the pack meeting early and be out for a convenient eight hours, because the drive to Beacon Falls is a good two hours, and bureaucracy always needs a large window of time. He hams up the notion that he's going to need time to have dinner out of town as well.

He's not too angry. At least this time it isn't the twins behind it. And Scott knows that, True Alpha or not, if he doesn't clean up Derek's loft after the party, Derek knows exactly what to do: call his mom. Melissa McCall is the real power behind the pack when all's said and done.

It's good for the pack to relax and kick back for the night. The only thing Derek's worried about is their Halloween track record. Two years ago the Oni attacked and last year there was that thing with the ghosts of the couple who committed suicide on Halloween thirty years ago that they don't talk about.

Mostly because it's too much to think about. The doomed couple kept jumping into people and possessing them, and with Stiles' obvious issues about possession, and Derek's own continuing battle with the universe and their dog continually using his body without consent, it had been just about the worst thing when the couple did their stint in their bodies at the same time. And when they jumped out, recreating their doomed dive off Beacon Cliffs in Scott and Kira's bodies (thank goodness for super powers!), leaving Derek and Stiles in the middle of a passionate kiss—

Even now, Derek can remember with clarity that the kiss hadn't stopped when the ghosts stopped possessing them. He can remember the rending sound Stiles made in the back of his throat and the way Stiles' lips had felt against his, soft and warm and with just the right level of pressure-friction that Derek's body trembled from his mouth to his toes.

Derek pushes the memory of it down. They haven't talked about it. It brings up too many issues for both of them, so suppression and denial are the only way to keep moving forwards. But sometimes… Sometimes he can't help staring. Can't help getting caught on Stiles' mouth, at the sense memory of Stiles' mouth on his. And sometimes, Derek catches Stiles looking back.

He shivers and tries harder to suppress the memory of the kiss as he makes the turn-off into Beacon City. His loft is on the outskirts, closer to Beacon Hills than the center of the city, really. While he's near the hub of the city he should stop for food, really. There's a great Mongolian place down near the subway where you only get side-eyed if you _don't_ eat the buuz with your hands, or there's that small diner which does the ham steaks that are bigger than Derek's head, but… he's feeling restless.

The whole engineered-by-Lydia process only ended up taking him five minutes; if Derek drives back to the loft now, by the time he gets there the party will be in full swing. Derek doesn't want to stop the party, which he's almost positive will happen if he bursts in, but he's so full of energy that he feels like he might burst if he doesn't use it.

The night before Halloween was supposed to be Mischief Night, but Halloween was always the time he and Laura played jokes, uniting together to prank the hell out of relatives, trick-or-treaters or random strangers alike. He could go play _rawr, real werewolf!_ again, like he has the last two years, but without Laura it gets old, fast.

Derek sighs. He could go to the party, but he's older than all of them, and sometimes he _feels_ it, feels that he'll just ruin it for the rest of them. They're still teenagers, even though most of the older members of the pack are eighteen now and preparing to go to college come summer. This will be the last Halloween with all of them in Beacon Hills together and Derek's sat in his car, exiled from the party in fear of him being a party pooper.

He's not always a mood killer, he really isn't – although he is brooding right now, so he's apparently his own worst enemy. He sighs, automatically looking for a place to park, because he doesn't want to ruin the party for anyone. If only there was some way of him going without anyone knowing it _is_ him. In New York, he and Laura could go out as _them,_ fangs and hair all free, without their new friends recognizing them easily. But here, he would need a…

_A costume._ It's freaking _Halloween._ Sometimes Derek really does live up to his own reputation as an idiot after all.

##

Costume in place, Derek has a moment where he thinks he'll be rumbled. After all, he does have a distinctive physique. Hopefully people will just think his costume has comedy padding. The mask is restrictive but at least it hides who he is.

The costume's a cliché, but it's not like there was a lot of choice at this time of a night. He was just lucky the place was still open. The finishing touch is a blast of Axe, which nearly makes Derek fall over. His eyes water, so it should cover his scent. Not that Scott and the others will be looking for him, but sometimes Malia still gets it in her head that everyone is dangerous and needs to be sniffed, and even though it's been nearly a year and a half since Liam discovered he was a born werewolf, his control over his powers is iffy at best if Mason isn't anywhere nearby.

Derek would be embarrassed by his pack half the time if he wasn't so grateful to have them.

He still finds himself holding his breath for a second as he passes through the door into the loft. Even though it's his home and he has more right than anyone to be there.

The decorations are beautiful. Well, they're tacky, dimestore cardboard Halloween silhouettes and cheap spray cobwebs and bright neon lights that strobe over the place in a way that might very well have killed Erica, pre-bite.

Except that is the wrong thought to have, because Derek _did_ actually get Erica killed and okay, now he's too depressed to party. Especially because Erica would have _loved_ this, both the being eighteen and partying with her friends and not having to miss out because the lights would have sent her into a painful spiral.

He's halfway to the door when Robin stops him.

As in, someone dressed like the 60s TV show, Dick Grayson, Robin. _Adam West's Batman_ 's Robin. It's ironic considering the 60s Batman costume is all Derek could pick up last minute, which is even more pathetic when compared to the four or five Nolan-era Batmans he can now see careering around the dance floor.

"You're all giant jerks," Robin yells, jabbing a finger at him.

"Yeah," Derek agrees, not knowing what Robin is going on about but agreeing anyway. He is a giant jerk. It doesn't matter how many years have passed – he got the majority of his pack killed, not once, but _twice._ That sort of thing never goes away and he's a fool for having chunks of time where he forgets that.

"And Lydia's a freak for enabling you all," Robin continues, before realizing Derek's agreed with him, and blinking wildly through his mask. "I mean, _what_?"

"I said yeah," Derek says, "so—"

"Your Batman outfit is tacky as hell," Robin says, stepping back and giving Derek a considering glance, and it's only when he steps back and gives Derek space to see him properly that Derek realizes Robin is _Stiles_.

Oh, god, now he sees it he can't _un_ see it – the Robin eyemask only covers a little part of Stiles' face and a strobe of yellow light reveals a distinctive dappling of moles that curve underneath it. The costume he's wearing is incredibly tacky, bright-colored spandex hugging his body, no fake padding included at _all,_ and Derek's mouth is suddenly dry at the sight of him like this.

Stiles has always been cute, in the way ungainly new-born fauns are cute when they're learning to walk, and he'd always been vaguely unhinged, in the way all the people Derek have ended up attracted to have been (the pack think Kate and Jennifer were unhinged, but they never got to see the manic mischief Paige got up to in orchestra), but somewhere in the haze of Derek being attracted to Stiles' personality, he's somehow semi-missed the fact that in the last two years Stiles has gotten _hot._

Like ridiculously-if-Derek-doesn't-get-his-hands-on-that-body-and-find-out-how-his-skin-tastes-he's-going-to- _explode_ hot.

"Lydia didn't give you that costume," Stiles says, pointing at him.

"Lydia definitely did not give me this costume," Derek agrees.

"You're… Batman all on your own volition and do not have a strawberry-blonde _hell witch_ blackmailing you into all that body-hugging spandex," Stiles says, eyes narrowing in apparent confusion.

"I don't."

"And you _voluntarily_ wore something that tacky? What's wrong with you?"

"I've often wondered that myself," Derek says, morose.

His exaggerated sadness elicits a bark of laughter from Stiles that rings out over the deep thud of the drum 'n' bass filling up the loft, reverberating through the wooden floorboards. "Eh. At least you got to be Batman," Stiles says with a matching, Eeyore-sad tone. "I'm never Batman. I'm always Robin."

"You make a very hot Robin," Derek says. Damn. Shit. He hadn't meant to be so honest. Stiles looks at him sharply, like Derek's out of his mind. It's a sadly accurate assessment, probably.

"You're the hottest Batman here," Stiles says and Derek can't help but listen to Stiles' heartbeat. It's a reflex, to automatically check on the pack, to know they're okay. Stiles' heartbeat is smooth, no hiccup. 100% honest. "And that's a massive compliment. My best bro is out there, Batman-ing it up, and he's admittedly a damn hot Batman." Stiles does a dramatic twirl, his stupid yellow cape fluttering behind him as he moves to stand at Derek's side. "That's Scott out there. With the girl dressed as Black Canary."

"I thought she was the Green Arrow's love interest."

"And Batman's. The dude gets around."

"Apparently so," Derek says, gesturing at himself and another Nolan-inspired Batman dancing past, this one with a guy dressed just in a suit. Derek takes a second longer to look past the thick-rimmed glasses to realize it's Mason, with his shirt open to reveal a Superman t-shirt underneath.

Meaning the Batman dancing with him is Liam. Yeah, Stiles did say something about all the wolves being Batman. Derek would sigh something about lack of imagination, but considering he'd be attacking himself too, it's probably best he doesn't. Even though self-deprecation is his speciality.

"It's so noisy in here," Stiles sighs. "I thought I was in the mood to party. I guess not. It's just—this place."

Derek nods. He doesn't know why he keeps the place here, except for the fact that he still owns the building and hasn't gotten around to selling it. He doesn't really want to know why, because it'll probably resemble the reason he never moved out of the Hale house remains until it was literally life-threatening to stay there. This place is stained with death.

Maybe he's just scared he'll forget the real reason they're dead if he doesn't have the bloodstains staring him in the face every day.

He should get out of here. Leave the pack to their party. He glances over to see Stiles staring out at the party, wrapped in too-tight bright colors and his face shadowed with sadness and there's suddenly something he wants more.

"Wanna get some air?" Derek asks and thumbs in the direction of the door outside.

He doesn't realize just quite how much he wants Stiles to say yes until he does.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as they hit the cool outside air, Stiles feels both immeasurably better and oddly silly for having spent so long thinking about leaving the party when clearly all he needed was some fresh air.

Batman's a genius for suggesting it. Bruce Wayne is written as a smart sort of fellow alongside his billions: clearly _this_ Batman's rocking that side of things, even though he's kinda missed out on the looking-snazzy part of being Batman. Stiles sinks against the brick wall by the mass of messy windows and looks out over the night sky. Batman stays near, but gives him space too, folding his arms over his chest and following Stiles' gaze outwards.

Stiles doesn't stay long looking at the stars or the distant lights which signify how close Beacon Hills is from here. His gaze inevitable drifts to his new companion. Stiles had assumed inside that the outfit was mostly dodgy cheap padding, comedy rolls of cotton to simulate a six-pack, but no. The light is clearer out here. This Batman's got real abs. Amazing abs. More like a twelve-pack, really.

Maybe _that's_ why Stiles will never be Batman. He just doesn't have the muscles.

"Whatever you're thinking," Batman says, "you're probably wrong."

Stiles startles and guiltily looks up to Batman's face. Well. Where he assumes Batman's face is. The guy's face is more hidden than Stiles'. Stiles only has an eye mask and Batman's mask is fuller, made of rigid plastic. His chin and mouth are clear of the mask, though; Batman's mouth is pressed in a concerned line and oh, there's stubble.

Heat pools in Stiles' stomach as he remembers a kiss that included stubble, a kiss he'd missed his moment to talk about and had regretted ever since. He'd _known_ the ghost was out of his body and thus probably Derek had been upossessed too but Stiles hadn't been strong enough to pass up the opportunity to finally get to kiss Derek. To see if the fever-bright dreams of the past year had been anywhere close to reality. Derek had looked appalled when they pulled back and why wouldn't he? As much as Stiles wants to think it's because seconds later, the stupid ghosts in Scott and Kira's bodies leapt off the nearest cliff (and really, had it been necessary for the suddenly-unpossessed-five-meters-from-the-ground pair to pull off those last second back flips? _Really?_ ), but he's not stupid. Derek had just been appalled at finding himself kissing Stiles Stilinski, that's the pure and simple truth.

"Well aren't _you_ charming?" Stiles tells Batman, after too long of a pause.

"You think I'm trying to charm you?" Batman asks, tilting his head.

Stiles smirks, because it's easy to smirk. Cocky is something he can do without having to put much effort into it. It probably helped that Scott's dad had given him so much easy practice at it, although not so much recently – the jerk had kinda stuck around. A case of too little, too late in his opinion, but Scott seemed happier, so Stiles couldn't even be mad.

"You did ask me outside," Stiles says. "There aren't many reasons someone would do that at a party." He smolders across at Batman, almost wanting to laugh at his own fake confidence, but really, he has good luck at parties when it comes to kissing, and Stiles really wants to have a go at kissing this Batman if he gets any say in the matter. One thing that definitely had been sorted in Stiles' head after that fateful (fateless?) kiss with Derek. Well, two. One, Caitlin had been right to ask: he does like boys. Two: he also like stubble. A _lot._ "Plus, you called me hot."

"I didn't mean to," Batman says.

And oh, okay. That hits like a punch to the gut, which sadly Stiles _does_ know how that feels now, thanks to a septuagenarian with a god complex (and while he would like to think they're done dealing with Gerard Argent, he's regenerated and come after them in three different forms so far. The giant iguana thing was probably the worst, although the thing with wings came pretty close.) 

Stiles knows firsthand that rejection from someone you know and are fond of (Lydia, when he finally got the courage to tell her he was in love with him – she couldn't return the feeling, too wrapped up in the terror the nogitsune inflicted on her; Malia, and she was probably right, because hooking up in a mental asylum was never going to be the best foundation to any sort of a relationship; and Derek, who shot him down with just one expression after that kiss, and Stiles isn't an idiot, he's not going to go back and _ask_ for Derek to hurt him more) hurts, but he's not too hot on experiencing that rejection from _strangers_ hurts just as much. He hadn't really wanted to know his appeal was basically zero across the board. He thinks back to his other brief romantic dalliances. Caitlin had been drunk. Heather had been _desperate._ And last year, the only person that wanted to kiss him was a ghost inhabiting someone else's body, and only because a ghost was in _him._

Yeah, Stiles is actually an idiot. He turns to go back inside, not knowing what else to do but run, and Batman catches his elbow in one surprisingly firm hand, stopping him.

Stiles throws an angry glance at Batman.

"I didn't mean it like that, moron," Batman says. Stiles sags in the grip slightly, disbelieving but somewhat swayed by Batman's tone. It sounds a lot like fond exasperation. "I meant you _surprised_ me into saying it. I don't normally—" Batman sighs, an exasperated sound. "I don't normally  _let_ myself think things like that."

"Oh," Stiles says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Escape is probably the best option if Stiles wants to salvage any of his ragged, worn-down feelings. "Well. It's been real, Batman, but—"

Batman sighs and interrupts him. "Do you always have to be so difficult, _Robin_?"

"My name's not—" Stiles starts, but then falters. Because right now, that's who he is. Robin. The caped crusader's sidekick pal. Always the sidekick, never the superhero.

"Would you prefer I call you Dick Grayson?" Batman asks.

Stiles pulls back, feeling unsure, uncertain. He steps back so he's leaning against the wall again and he's much more cautious when he glances at Batman. Batman folds his arms again but doesn't move closer, leaving him space again.

He doesn't know what this is. He doesn't know what this Batman guy wants with him. Clearly not to make out with him, and the guy's about as much of a conversationalist as Derek, so it isn't to talk. Maybe he just feels sorry for Stiles, or something. Stiles squints, assessing, and watches Batman's gaze flicker over Stiles' body, just as assessing.

Maybe making out is still on the cards and Batman just needs to know Stiles is interested?

There's one way to be sure. Stiles looks up until he catches Batman's gaze. "Sometimes I like Dick," Stiles offers. Batman curses under his breath, his tone low and hot and rough. Stiles can't help the grin that covers his face. "What about you?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Sometimes I like Dick," Stiles says and Derek can't help the curse that comes out, because he'd thought, maybe—But he hadn't known for _sure_ —And yeah, Stiles had gone with Mason to the spring fling, but Stiles could have just been being _nice...?_

Which is what Stiles is, despite his vehemence to the contrary.  _I'm not nice, Derek. Puppies are nice. Takeout when you can't be bothered to cook is nice. Old grannies who pinch your cheek and slide candy in your pocket are nice. What I am is a bad-ass motherfricker who don't take no shit off of nobody._

Stiles grin is bright, biting, _beautiful,_ and Derek's so distracted that when Stiles adds, "What about you?" Derek can't remember if he's talking about the name or the, uh, other thing.

"I like Dick too," Derek says, a little too breathlessly, and yeah, all the blood in his body is disappearing elsewhere, and his eyes automatically dip down low, to Stiles' green-spandex covered crotch.

It doesn't hide much. Holy hell, Derek's kind of screwed. Well, it answers one of the main questions (would Stiles be interested in any sort of relationship with a guy? _yes_ ) but does nothing to fix the main problem (that the one kiss they'd shared in the past was without intent and hella _problematic_ to quote Kira when she'd been on the internet too much, and Derek probably would give Stiles nightmares again if he flirted with him as himself.)

"Or Robin," Derek blurts. "Robin's fine too."

Stiles looks at him oddly and Derek fights the urge to flush even though it's still relatively dark out here and his blush would probably go mostly hidden. "Okay, Batman. Or… Bruce?"

It's dark, but it's light enough for Derek to see a pale expanse of neck, and a pale curve of skin where the outfit doesn't cover Stiles' elbows, and Stiles' eyes are tracking his body almost like he's a _predator._ Derek shivers and it's not from the cold.

This isn't something he should have. This isn't something Stiles would _want_ if he knew who it was under the spandex. It's a miracle Stiles _hasn't_ rumbled him yet. It's probably because the whole pack think he won't be back until the small hours of the morning and it's still before midnight, but that wall of implausibility won't hold up for long.

Stiles is observant. A mask and spandex won't hold him for long.

"It's Batman," Derek says, roughing his voice into his best Batman impression. He steps back further onto the roof, more into the shadows; Stiles tilts his head a little but doesn't say anything about him pulling back. "I'm Batman."

"Sure, Bruce, whatever you say," Stiles says, smiling at his own joke. Making other people laugh is one of Stiles' favorite things, but he'll often settle for making himself laugh.

"So what were you thinking about?" Derek asks.

"Nothing right now," Stiles says and his heartbeat shifts interestingly. It's a lie. But if Derek doesn't want Stiles to rumble his real identity _super_ quickly, it's probably best if he holds back on the werewolf talents for now.

"Back when I said you were wrong."

"Hm," Stiles says. "The cliché you're looking for is _penny for your thoughts._ "

"I'll give you two," Derek deadpans.

"Dude. You're Bruce Wayne. You can afford a million dollars for my thoughts."

"Are they worth that much?"

"They _could_ be."

"Well," Derek says, "tell me something worth a million dollars and we'll see how much I'd pay for it."

Stiles leans against the brick, at what would be an awkward angle for anyone else, but Stiles makes it look effortless as his eyes track down Derek's body again. The heat in his shadowed gaze is almost tangible.

Christ, Derek really should try and get out of here before Stiles finds out who he's really flirting with, remembers why he doesn't like Derek that way, and everything between them becomes painful and awkward. As much as Derek's been harboring a desperately quiet crush on Stiles for the last year (well, longer), he appreciates Stiles' friendship a lot. They've gone from antagonism to grudging appreciation to a camaraderie that Derek finds himself craving when they don't get much time together.

Stiles has saved his life more times than Derek can count.  _More times than he even knows,_ Derek's subconscious reminds him. Derek tells his subconscious to shut the hell up.

Well. Surely he can listen to Stiles a little longer before ducking out. Derek can go back to his car, drive off, change in a gas station toilet and be back before anyone realizes that he still makes terrible plans.

Yeah, Derek should remember he's not allowed to make plans for a reason.

"My name's not really Robin," Stiles says, after a long pause where he's been thinking about what best secret to go with.

"You already told me that one."

"I guess I did." Stiles frowns. "When I said I liked Dick, I was gauging to see whether you were into boys or not?"

The corner of Derek's mouth automatically turns up a little at the side. He needs to be careful. If he flashes his teeth in a smile this false feeling of security and the mask will be for nothing, it'll be over in _seconds_. "I figured."

Stiles' eyebrows lift above his black eye-mask. "That's interesting."

"Well," Derek allows, and he can't stop the smirk, even though he does fight to keep his mouth as closed as possible, "there _are_ only a handful of reasons why I might have asked you to come outside with me."

Stiles obviously can't help his answering smile. "How about… I _really_ hate this cape?" He stands up straight and tugs at the yellow material falling over his shoulders.

Derek lifts both eyebrows in a trademark Hale _duh_ gesture, confident that the mask will hide that recognizable movement. He tugs at his own flimsy cape. "I'd say that's less a secret, more… you being sensible?"   
  
"Ha," Stiles says, somewhat loudly. Yeah, sensible isn't a word Stiles gets assigned very often. Stiles darts a contemplative look over Derek's shoulder at the windows, where the party is a blur of colors behind them. The music is muffled but still clear enough to make out the lyrics, which in Derek's opinion is a shame, so that must mean he's getting old. His mom said that happened to everyone, but that ended up being a lie for her.

"You cannot tell Lydia what I'm about to do," Stiles says, pointing a warning finger at Derek.

Derek forces himself to watch Stiles instead of getting trapped in his own sad thoughts. As usual, the heaviness of his mind lightens. Derek doesn't know the exact moment when Stiles became his anchor instead of the still-constant anger that burns at the bottom of his spine and will probably burn until the end of his days.

"What are you about to do?" Derek asks and then the floor lurches unsteadily beneath his feet – not literally, but definitely metaphorically – as Stiles leans over the narrow wall that separates the balcony from a massive six-floor drop. Derek lurches forwards, panic sparking through his body, in time to see Stiles detach his yellow cape. It flutters to the ground in a counter-clockwise spiral, a blur of yellow that catches on the tip of a nearby tree branch before the wind launches it in a different direction.

Derek wordlessly lifts his head to stare at Stiles in disbelief. Stiles is grinning, like he's just let go of a lifetime's worth of agony.

"No capes," Stiles says, solemnly wagging a finger at Derek.

Derek blinks and then fumbles for the cape at his neck, tugging it off and offering it to Stiles.

"Hey, no," Stiles says, "I was just—"

Derek thrusts it out, words failing him, and Stiles frowns before smiling and taking the cape from him, holding it out over the balcony.

"Last chance," Stiles says, eyes locking with his.

Derek can't look away. "Do it," he says.

The wind tugs away Derek's black cape, immediately pulling it from sight. Stiles' head moves so he can watch it go, black fading into black as a content smile replaces the slightly manic previous one.

"Well," Stiles says, slightly breathy as he steps back so he's not so near the edge, "at least we're not in danger any more of being accidentally sucked into a jet engine."

It's so remarkably off on a tangent, so remarkably _Stiles,_ that Derek can't help but laugh, and that's when Stiles tilts his head and then his content smile turns _fond._ Derek's own burgeoning smile falters and he suddenly feels unsure, vulnerable. He's back to feeling fractious, like he might vibrate out of his own body. Above, the heavy waxing moon calls to him of freedom, but Stiles is his anchor and he is tethered to this moment, to this spot on the stone floor of the balcony.

"Good," Derek says. "I was worried about that." He moves closer to the wall himself, leaning on it and peering over the edge. He can see Stiles' cape, a smudge of yellow winding around a tree, but his is lost to sight. Thank goodness he bought the outfit. He can't imagine a rental place being too happy with him for losing the cape.

"She can't get mad at me. I'm still wearing the outfit," Stiles says.

"You owe me a secret," Derek says, keeping his voice casual as he looks out at the stars. Laura used to know all the constellations, but Derek only ever knew one but they're in the wrong hemisphere to see it.

"I don't think you have a million dollars to pay me for a secret," Stiles says, leaning against the wall too, but a quick glance tells Derek he's watching the party, not the sky.

Derek shakes his head. He could have a million dollars, maybe, if he sells some stocks and shares off, but liquidation is always a lot of effort. "How about a trade?" he suggests. "One secret for another?"

"Is there any secret in particular you want to know?"

"How about you start with the outfit?" Derek suggests. "Why are you dressed as Robin if you'd much prefer to be Batman?"

"Ha," Stiles says, but there's no real humor in the sound. "Lydia, of course. Lydia Martin?"

"I'm aware of Lydia Martin."

"Who isn't?" Stiles makes a dreamy sound. Derek tries not to grind his teeth too loudly. He's never liked any reminder that Stiles has generally positive feelings for Lydia. Don't get Derek wrong, he's slowly becomes friends with Lydia, especially over the last year, but he's always felt kind of sketchy over how she has a weird relationship with Stiles, one he couldn't really hope to mimic, and—Oh. It's jealousy. Of _course._

Derek swallows hard. Just how long has been having… _feelings_ … for Stiles?

_You already know the answer to that,_ Derek's subconscious says. _Mexico. It's why Kate couldn't touch you. No matter what she did to you._

"So she batted your eyelashes and you instantly thought painting yourself in bodytight spandex was the way to go?" Derek asks. "Because I should discourage that… but my eyes are thankful."

"Shut up," Stiles gasps, embarrassed. "Oh, my god. I'm blushing. To my _ears._ You're a hell demon, Batman."

"I try. And you're avoiding the question."

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice," Stiles grouches. "Fine. She's blackmailing me."

"She's _what_?" Derek whirls angrily despite himself, turning to face the windows, glaring like he can pick out Lydia in the crowd. "How? How could she—"

"Yo, Cujo, relax," Stiles says.

_Cujo,_ Derek mouths, and freezes, because does that mean—Has Stiles already—?

"It's just a minor thing." Stiles leans back, gesturing vaguely at the windows. "Nothing illegal."

Oh. Maybe Stiles is just so used to being surrounded by werewolves that all his insults are just automatically wolf or dog related. "Yeah?"

"It was earlier in the year. While I was still getting used to… liking my name or not."

_I like Dick,_ Stiles' voice says again in Derek's memory and Derek's throat feels tight. Amongst other things. "What happened?"

"I went to a dance – the school dance, actually, the spring fling. You might have been there?"

No, Derek hadn't gone anywhere near the school that night, for reasons he's kind of thinking now are probably to do with jealousy over Stiles going with someone else. "Dances aren't really my thing."

"Ah, hence why you drag innocent sidekicks outside instead of joining the merry throngs."

"Not the wording I would have chosen, but…"

"So I went with one of the guys on the lacrosse team," Stiles says. "Mason? You know him?"

"Yeah." 

"Well, this was before his current boyfriend pulled his own head out of his ass, and I was single, _desperately_ so – I mean, the last time I was kissed was a _year_ ago desperate – and we were getting all hot and heavy on the dancefloor, if you get my drift—"

"Yeah," Derek says, and hopes hard that his teeth grinding is being covered up by the obnoxiously loud music.

"And so he grabbed _my_ ass, and I didn't know I liked that so much – I do, FYI."

"Thanks for the memo," Derek manages through gritted teeth, because holy _hell,_ he's not a good person. He should have left much earlier. Stiles wouldn't ordinarily tell him this sort of stuff and Derek…

Derek's possibly not going to _survive it._

Stiles hums under his breath for a moment. "And then I maybe sort of, kind of _accidentally…_ called him someone else's name." Stiles winces openly, almost comically. "And Lydia managed to catch the whole thing on film."

"Ah," Derek says. Mainly because if he tried _coherent_ human language he would fail. Thoroughly.

"Anyway, that's my embarrassing secret," Stiles says. "You owe me one in return. Or a million dollars. I take cheques. Or bitcoin."

Derek opens his mouth to ask what bitcoin is, but it feels like some sort of a trap. Like when Malia convinced Derek it was a compliment to call Melissa McCall a MILF, whatever one of those is. It has to be rude whatever it means: Melissa hit Derek basically right into next week.

Amazing woman. Mean right hook, but _amazing_ woman.

There's definitely something liberating about being in costume, hiding under a mask. Derek finds himself speaking a secret he doesn't mean to. "I haven't kissed anyone since last Halloween." Derek _hears_ himself saying it, like from a distance away, but he doesn't feel like it's actually him saying it.

Batman's saying the secret. Not him.

"I find that hard to believe," Stiles says. "You're nearly as built as—" For some reason, Stiles clams up. Derek glances to the side to see Stiles jam his mouth together in a firm line and turn back to glare out at the skyline instead of the jumble of the party inside the loft. "You're a muscle guy. There has to be something horribly wrong with you if it's taken you a year to get zero mouth action. Is it all the garlic you eat? Or—"

"I think," Derek says, and it tumbles out in a rush, "I think I'm just a terrible person."

Derek nearly jumps when Stiles puts an arm around his back, loosely letting his hand lie on Derek's shoulder.

"I'm sure that's not true," Stiles says, soft and quiet and Derek can still hear him anyway, even as the music inside screams about how the singer's ex is a dirty, dirty whore.

"You don't even know me," Derek says.

"Sure I do," Stiles says.

Derek freezes.

"You're Batman," Stiles carries on and Derek can breathe again.

This is ridiculous. He really should go, before this gets any worse. Before Stiles spills any more secrets. Next time it might be one he'd never in a million years admit in front of Derek, and if he found out he'd said it _to_ Derek, then Stiles might never forgive him.

He should go. Now. Before the worst happens.

"There's a problem," Derek says.

"Yeah?" Stiles looks up at him, the color of his eyes visible up this close.

Derek should get further away. He really should. "The person I kissed a year ago… I don't _want_ to kiss anyone else."

It's wrong to be saying it like this, but it's liberating too, freeing in the best sort of way. Derek's been denying it to everyone all year, including himself. For Stiles to get to know it some sort of way, even though he thinks it's a random stranger dressed in a bad Batman suit and spilling his guts to the night sky…

Yeah. Maybe it's what Derek needs to give Stiles up. To move on. Find something _real._

"Oh," Stiles says. His voice sounds a bit strained. "Yeah. Yeah, I know that feeling."

Derek laughs, but it's a bitter, unfunny, ironic sound. He's heard the story, of course; Lydia kissing Stiles in the locker room, and her gentle rejection months later. Stiles knows the anguish for sure. "It is what it is."

"And this person?" Stiles asks. "Do they not want—"

"No," Derek says quickly. "No."

Stiles' hand on Derek's shoulder is the comfort it always is, on the rare opportunities Derek gets to have this touch without the benefit of a mask hiding him. "I'm sorry, dude," Stiles says, his voice thick with genuine concern. "Are you sure? Have you… asked? I mean, I'm going to suggest you ask naked. Maybe lie in their bed, covered in whipped cream."

"Hilarious," Derek deadpans.

"I try," Stiles says, bumping Derek's hip with his.

Derek wants nothing more than to stay here, even though it's freezing cold. With Stiles, it feels bearable. But he knows he can't.

Well. He knows he _shouldn't._ And Stiles deserves more than this. He's a kid. He deserves to go back into the party, not hang outside with someone who's just feeling sorry for himself.

"I gotta—" Derek starts, but before he can finish the sentence, Scott bursts through the door. Although his outfit is even less revealing than Derek's, really, it's obviously Scott. Scott just can't hide who he is in any way.

"Yo," Stiles says, "Scott. What's up?"

Scott eyeballs Derek warily for a second, but then he steps forward, his eyes trained on Stiles. "It's Derek!" Scott says.

Derek's stomach swoops.

And drops.

And continues dropping.

Like… _plummeting._ Fear is cold and comes with intense internal gravity.

" _What's_ Derek?" Stiles asks, as Derek panics.

Derek 's already wincing, crowding backwards and away from Stiles' arm, but Stiles just shoots him the oddest look and then turns his attention back to Scott.

"I mean Derek's car," Scott continues, and Derek tilts his head, because _what_? He means… _what?_ Derek's losing his mind. He has to be. He was so sure he'd been rumbled. "It's down in the parking lot. He's back."

"Right," Stiles says, slow and measured. "And yet the party's still going. Does that _sound_ like Derek's _back_ back?"

"Maybe he thought the noise was his neighbors?" Scott suggests, tilting his head. The door from inside clatters open again and Kira bounds through. Most girls with her figure make black spandex and leather look hot, but Kira somehow makes it look like the most adorable thing ever.

Kira's a mass of contradictions, though. Derek saw her facing down a horde of black fairies over the summer and she was wearing cute pink footless pyjamas embroidered all over with hugging teddy bears, and she somehow managed to look entirely bad ass in it.

Then again, maybe it was her huge fuck-off sword that managed that effect.

"Or," Stiles says, "Derek's an actual adult, realized we were conning him, and decided to be nice and give us a Halloween off?"

"Oh," Scott says and winces. "You think he knew we were messing with him?"

"Probably."

"Aw, shit."

"He's a good guy. He'll understand," Kira says. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's deliberately hanging back so we can have fun. He's like that." Derek feels his cheek heat at her confidence in him. Kira said they were bros. Derek does like it when the two of them go off to fight crime and discover supernatural clues, although it's disturbing how many matching outfits they own. Completely by accident, too.

Well. He kind of got the Thor t-shirt to match her Loki skirt, but no one can prove _anything._

"Yeah," Scott says. "I'll talk to him afterwards though and apologize."

"You're a good guy too, baby," Kira says, kissing him noisily on the cheek, her blonde wig smacking Scott in the face. Scott smiles goofily while Stiles pretends to gag at the pet name.

"You coming back inside?" Scott says to Stiles. Derek watches Stiles intently, unsure what he wants the answer to be. Yes, so Derek can slide out of there. Or maybe even jump over the balcony, like the real Batman might.

Uh, if Batman wasn't fictional, anyway.

No, so Stiles can spend some more stolen seconds with Derek.

Derek realizes he's holding his breath.

"Nah, just need some more air," Stiles says and Derek breathes again. "And I found me a better Batman."

Scott's gaze turns to Derek's and yep, Derek's holding his breath again. After a too-long, agonizing minute, Scott just nods at Derek. "Batman," Scott says, in the worst Batman voice Derek's ever heard.

"Batman," Derek greets back with a nod.

There's silence as they watch Scott and Kira go back into the loft. Derek works his mouth silently for a few mangled attempts at human language, and then he squares his shoulders. He's a werewolf. A born werewolf. A _Hale._ He is stronger than this.

If he's _ever_ to become anywhere close to the sort of man Stiles really deserves, Derek needs to leave. Now.

"Look," Derek says, pulling away from Stiles and backing up, "it's been fun. But, y'know, Gotham needs me, and—"

" _Wait,_ " Stiles breathes.

And Derek has to stop. Because apparently Stiles can just control him. _Siren,_ Derek's subconscious snipes, even though Stiles is the only member of the pack still one hundred percent human after Braeden had that incident with the werepygmies.

Seriously. _Werepygmies._ What even is their _life_?

"Just one more question," Stiles says. Derek swallows and nods. Stiles isn't smiling any more. His expression is a mystery, a patchwork of shadows and reflected party lights, and Derek is stuck. He can't even move as Stiles steps closer to him. Prowling closer, like Malia's been giving him lessons in how to move like a coyote. _Tiptoe,_ Stiles said, last year, when Malia learned how to control her full shift. _Coyote's tiptoe._ Stiles had looked so sad when saying that and Derek's heart had clenched when Scott explained it was a fact that Allison taught him, back before—

They thought they'd lost Malia to the wild, but she came back. She said she was bored, but her heart skipped. It was a lie.

She needed the pack. Just like Derek needs the pack.

Which is why Derek needs to run away now, before he ruins things irreversibly.

But he can't. Not when Stiles puts a hand out, splaying his long fingers into a star, covering the Batman logo stretched across Derek's chest. Stiles looks up at him, eyes shining in the moonlight.

"Just _how,_ " Stiles asks, "without Lydia giving you that _admittedly_  terrible costume, did you manage to match all the other werewolves and dress up as Batman anyway without her evil influence?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Roughly about five minutes earlier:_

Letting the capes drift away into the breeze feels amazing, like he’s dropped a ton of weight, not two scraps of fabric that barely weight more than the wind they get whipped up into. Stiles feels a hundred times better. He can relax into the evening now.

“Well,” Stiles says, taking a breath now he can step away from the edge of the balcony, because it’s a bit of a fall and he doesn’t have werewolf superstrength to fall back on, “at least we’re not in danger any more of being accidentally sucked into a jet engine.”

It’s the very last second of the evening that ends up anywhere near where he thought it might end up when Lydia handed him the Robin costume. Because the next second is _insane._ More insane, Stiles thinks, than his best friend being bitten and turned into a werewolf, because Scott was always going to end up in _some_ sort of trouble when separated from Stiles. Stiles, however, has never imagined that he might ever get something _nice_.

Maybe he should have, because Batman laughs and Stiles' whole perception of the world flips upside down.

Batman laughs at him, open-mouthed, and the sound is delicious and the sight is beautiful and suddenly Stiles can’t breathe and he’s ashamed of his own observation skills, because it's Derek. _It's Derek._ Yeah, now he’s looking, that’s _definitely_ Derek’s distinctive abs and Derek’s attractive stubble and Derek’s highly defined ass. He thinks back a few moments and agrees with his memories that yes, when he dropped his cape over the edge, there _was_ a car in Derek’s usual spot. A black one. Stiles doesn’t have to look back now to check, because it’ll be Derek’s soccer mom car.

Because no one in Beacon Hills has teeth like Derek does. Not when matched with those muscles and holy hell, Derek is in front of him, in a cheap-ass Batman costume, and _he thinks Stiles makes a hot Robin._

And he was flirting with Stiles.

And he _likes Dick._

And while “Batman” has a mask which obscures most of his face, Stiles’ eyemask doesn’t really conceal who he is.

Meaning Derek knows who he’s flirting with. And has been flirting with him _anyway._

Wow, talk about butterflies in his stomach. Stiles’ mom always told him he deserved good things to happen to him. _Maybe you were right, mom,_ Stiles thinks, giddy and overwhelmed and so unsure, because maybe the universe is messing with him, but _Derek Hale is in body-hugging spandex,_ so that’s enough of a boon even if the rest of it is some sort of bizarre elaborate joke.

And Derek’s a massive, giant nerd. Who _voluntarily_ dresses as 60s Batman? There’ll have been other costumes left. He’s such a dork.

Crap. Stiles’ smile probably looks insane.

“Good,” Derek says, his smile faltering a little, but he adds, “I was worried about that” and Stiles has to force his concentration to kick in, because what the hell is Derek talking about now?

Oh. Yeah. Stiles’ brain is a speed demon. Thankfully he’s used to having existential crises of existence in microseconds. He’d just… ah yeah, made a joke about jet engines. Right. Stiles' mind is all over the place. If he's gonna figure out what’s going on, he needs to test the waters. See if Derek’s just being weirdly nice to him, or see if it’s… maybe more?

Derek shifts closer to the wall, peering over the edge, and Stiles chastises himself for a minute because how did he not notice Derek’s ass? It’s kinda one of Stiles’ greatest hobbies of the past year or so. Staring at Derek’s ass. And his thighs. And his stupid, adorable face.

Right. Stiles needs to say something. Something to try and prompt the conversation on. He thinks maybe he’s gonna vibrate out of his own skin if he doesn’t find out what Derek’s thinking and soon.

Derek’s gaze looks fixed on Stiles’ fluttering cape. Stiles abruptly hopes that Lydia bought the outfit and isn’t hiring it. If she did hire, she’s letting down her massive IQ.

“She can’t get mad at me,” Stiles says, gesturing at the released cape. “I’m still wearing the outfit.”

Derek’s staring out at the stars. Stiles wonders if Derek knows any of the constellations that are visible tonight. Probably not - most of the werewolves for some unexplainable reason only seem to be able to identify Lupus.

They’re all massive idiots, really. Stiles needs to stop thinking the word idiot like it’s a compliment.

“You owe me a secret,” Derek says, his voice curiously flat, carefully devoid of inflection.

He’s trying hard not to be identified, and that’s another highly valid reason why Stiles hasn’t realized before now that it’s Derek. The big reason is Derek’s supposed to be out of town. He isn’t supposed to _be_ here. Stiles had wanted him here, had wanted knowing there was someone he could persuade to hug the wall with him and bitch about their woeful lives, but maybe that had been part of the reason Lydia insisted they waylay Derek with a made-up excuse. Because Stiles held onto his crushes like a dog with a bone and sometimes needed forcibly shoving away.

Stiles leans back against the wall, testing it for solidity with his feet, although he’s less nervous now about the height. Regardless of Derek’s real feelings for him - and now Stiles is even daring to let himself think that maybe Derek’s look of appalled disgust after their kiss last year might have had another reason attached to it than _oh my god, ew, I kissed Stiles -_  now he knows it’s Derek, Stiles knows he’s safe.

Derek will catch him if he falls. Stiles has known that fact more securely than he’s known anything for _years_.

"I don't think you have a million dollars to pay me for a secret," Stiles says, turning to watch the party inside and the jostling bodies. He thinks Derek’s sneaking a glance at him and Stiles’ spine turns liquidy. He’s glad he has the wall to hold him up. The idea that Derek might _like_ him…

It’s more than Stiles has allowed himself to think, not since this stupid crush started in the first place. He’s probably going to end up heartbroken, but he also hasn’t felt this alive since, well. Since Derek kissed him, to be honest. Well. Since the ghost in Derek’s body kissed the ghost in Stiles’ body and then… Derek hadn’t broken the kiss when the possession broke. It counts as _half_ a kiss. Stiles wishes he was brave enough to suggest exchanging a secret for a kiss, but he’s not _that_ brave.

Not now he knows who it is behind the mask.

Actually, thinking about it, Derek might even have a million dollars. But Derek’s already shaking his head. “How about a trade?” Derek suggests. “One secret for another?”

Stiles almost wants to cheer, because it's a better opening that he could have wished for. Instead, he forces himself to remain calm. Even if it's less butterflies in his stomach right now, more like a horde of stampeding penguins. _Be cool, Stiles._ "Is there any secret in particular you want to know?"

Yeah, that's innocuous enough, a toe in the water. Testing the temperature of the situation.

"How about you start with the outfit?" Derek suggests. Stiles cocks an eyebrow thoughtfully. It's a step in a very hopeful direction. _Derek Hale thinks you make a hot Robin,_ Stiles thinks again, and it's taking all his epic powers of concentration to squeal at a pitch only dogs and werewolves can hear. "Why are you dressed as Robin if you'd prefer to be Batman?"

"Ha," Stiles says, loudly, more like a punctuation of a sound than anything resembling humor. "Lydia, of course." Wait, that's too familiar. Stiles is supposed to think Batman is a stranger. "Lydia Martin?"

"I'm aware of Lydia Martin," Derek says.

Derek might have a killer body (and often the body of a killer of supernatural things), and a face that makes Stiles go stupid just from looking at it, but his voice is definitely one of Stiles' favorite things about him. "Who isn't?" Stiles responds, but his control isn't as iron as he'd like and his mouth just makes this _sound._ It's a highly embarrassing dreamy sort of sigh. Stiles hides a wince, but man, he's probably just blown it.

Except… Derek's grinding his teeth? Because—because _Stiles made a dreamy sound at the same time as Lydia's name?_

Oh, Stiles _really_ has to be reading too much into this. He has to be.

"So she batted your eyelashes and you instantly thought painting yourself in bodytight spandex was the way to go?" Derek asks.

_Bodytight spandex,_ Stiles thinks, _that's definitely—_

"Because I should discourage that," Derek continues, apparently (thankfully) unaware that Stiles is about having a conniption. Seriously, he's basically swooning. He may need smelling salts. Dammit, sometimes Stiles is an Edwardian lady, and anyone who has a problem with it can go and say hi to his best buddy Scott. Sometimes it's good having a best friend with actual teeth and claws. "But my eyes are thankful," Derek finishes and Stiles nearly bursts an internal organ because Derek's tone is sly but genuine at the same time and _whaaaaaat._ Seriously. _What._ Ohmygod. Stiles' brain has legitimately stopped working.

"Shut up," Stiles gasps, embarrassed. "Oh, my god." Well, say that for Stiles, even when he's having some sort of amazing full body breakdown, he can still talk. Even if it is a running commentary without filters. "I'm blushing. To my _ears_." It's true and it's embarrassing and Stiles' face feels like it's on fire. He fights to regain some semblance of sense and falls back on melodramatic flailing. "You're a hell demon, Batman," Stiles says, because if he doesn't keep on with this whole not knowing who Derek is ploy, he'll say something embarrassing. Like _take me to bed or lose me forever._

Stiles sighs, because his brain won't let him get away with it. The true embarrassing statement would be more like _I want to climb you like a tree that I can hump in public without getting arrested._ Okay, okay, so it would be more like, _I love you, please marry me and have thirteen adopted babies with me._ Yeahhh, Stiles needs to curb that impulse back, _stat._

"I try," Derek says, because the fucker has an excellent sense of humor as well as being walking perfection, damn him. "And you're avoiding the question."

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice," Stiles grouches. "Fine. She's blackmailing me."

"She's _what_?" Rather brilliantly, Derek whirls angrily to face the windows, glaring

like he can pick out Lydia in the crowd. "How? How could she—"

"Yo, Cujo, relax," Stiles says. Derek freezes beside him. Oh. _Shit._ Werewolf jokes. It just came out on impulse. Crap. Oh, god, Derek's going to _know_ that Stiles knows he knows who Stiles is—wait, isn't there a Friends episode that sounds like that?—anyway, Derek's going to figure everything out and Stiles is going to be in so much trouble and he should have left the instant he found out the truth. Ugh, Derek's going to tan his ass. And not in a sexy way. Stiles' life is so continually tragic.

Still, Derek hasn't confronted him about it yet. Maybe there's still time. If Stiles continues as normal, like he hasn't said anything, maybe he can get away with the idea that everyone makes Stephen King jokes on Halloween? "It's just a minor thing," Stiles says, continuing to talk about the blackmail. He leans back, freaks out that it's possibly too overly-casual, and gestures vaguely at the windows to cover it up. "Nothing illegal."

Derek frowns a moment longer but then says, "Yeah?" and Stiles tries not to overtly sigh in relief that Derek hasn't picked up on it.

Stiles should probably make an excuse now to slip out, because that was _close,_ but he's too close to knowing now. Knowing whether he actually has a chance with Derek or not. "It was earlier in the year," Stiles says, and wonders how best to phrase that it was during the time when he was trying to figure out whether he liked boys and girls or not (yes, by the way.) "While I was still getting used to… liking my name or not."

Derek gets it. What happened?" Derek asks. His voice is curiously tight, like Stiles' words have affected him _physically._ Stiles has to count to ten in his head to stop from physically shivering at the concept. Derek's always been able to elicit a physical response from Stiles. The idea of it happening in reverse? _Please let this be real._

Facts. Stiles can do facts. "I went to a dance – the school dance, actually, the spring fling. You might have been there?" He's still maintaining the pretense that "Batman" is probably a kid from school, but there's a note of sincerity in it, really, because there'd been no real reason for Derek _not_ to come to the spring fling. He hadn't come, even though Stiles' head had turned automatically to the door every time it opened, even though Stiles knew Derek wasn't coming.

"Dances aren't really my thing," Derek says.

Maybe that's the real reason after all. It's kinda disappointing, actually. "Ah, hence why you drag innocent sidekicks outside instead of joining the merry throngs."

"Not the wording I would have chosen," Derek says, which is an understatement, because Derek rarely chooses words, "but..."

Derek doesn't finish the sentence – it must be a prompt for Stiles to continue. So he does. Duh. "So I went with one of the guys on the lacrosse team. Mason? You know him?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this was before his boyfriend pulled his own head out of his ass," Stiles explains, and yeah, Liam had been an oblivious idiot for months, it had been _agony_ to watch from the outside, watching Mason and Liam get their act together. "And I was single, desperately so—" Stiles makes himself take a quick breath, ready to slide in a hint about Derek, _to_ Derek, "I mean, _the last time I was kissed was a_ _year ago_ desperate."

Stiles side-eyes Derek experimentally. Derek's staring into space but his fists are clenched, probably without him even realizing. He's not giving a lot away, though.

Stiles needs to push things on. He decides to… embroider the truth a tiny bit, to gauge Derek's reaction. "And we were getting all hot and heavy on the dance floor, if you get my drift—"

And oh, even the loud music thumping from inside the loft isn't enough to cover up the glorious sound of Derek _grinding his teeth._ He's jealous. He's _actually jealous._

"Yeah," Derek manages to get out.

Stiles isn't really a nice person and he's told Derek so a lot of times. Derek doesn't seem to believe him, but it's true. A nice person might stop with the teasing, but Stiles is so giddy with this burgeoning knowledge, that even if Derek isn't feeling _feelings,_ there's still some base emotions going on there and Stiles can work with lust and jealousy, oh yeah. "And so he grabbed my ass," Stiles continues, blithely, "and I didn't know I liked that so much." That had been an amazing eye opener, even if Mason had only accidentally grabbed Stiles' ass. "I do, FYI," Stiles tags on.

Derek just about manages "Thanks for the memo" through gritted teeth and it is _excellent._ Derek is jealous. Over Mason grabbing Stiles' ass. Once. A million years ago. Holy hell, how did Stiles miss this?

Stiles hums under his breath for a moment, enjoying Derek's reactions a little too much. He is definitely a jerk. But he's a jerk that Derek Hale might possibly get jealous over. And he's a jerk that Derek thinks is hot. Seriously, Stiles is going to float on clouds for _years_ over this. "And then I maybe sort of, kind of accidentally... called him someone else's name." Stiles' accompanying melodramatic wince is probably too clownish, but Derek doesn't call him out on his melodrama. "And Lydia managed to catch the whole thing on film."

"Ah," Derek says.

It's not the coherent response Stiles was secretly hoping for, but then again, it is Derek Hale. He can talk, _boy_ can he talk, but when it comes to anything that might include people feeling things… Yeah, it's not Derek's best talent.

"Anyway, that's my embarrassing secret," Stiles says. "You owe me one. Or a million dollars. I take cheques. Or bitcoin."

Derek opens his mouth, probably to ask what bitcoin is, but he closes his mouth and Stiles is weirdly proud about that. You can say that for Derek – he does learn his lessons. Although _why_ Derek continues to let Malia prank him is a giant mystery.

Stiles is about to say something else, probably something awkward about maybe accepting dogecoin too, wow, much awesome, but then he loses all capacity for human speech.

Because Derek says, "I haven't kissed anyone since last Halloween."

And _what_? That's—Stiles blinks, several times in a row, because that means _Stiles_ is his last kiss, and while that's been true for him too, no one's kissed him since Derek, it's difficult to comprehend it being true for Derek.

"I find that hard to believe," Stiles says, almost winded. "You're nearly as built as—" Oh, he should probably stop trying to maintain this farce, because it has gone too far, Derek would probably never admit this sort of thing if he _knew_ Stiles knew it was him saying it.

Stiles jams his mouth together in a firm line. Running away now would just make him look guilty. He needs to joke. Yeah, that's it. That's who he is. Stiles Stilinski, the man with the terrible sense of humor in a crisis. He turns to look out at the skyline, because if he looks at Derek, he'll dissolve into a puddle of incoherent goo. "You're a muscle guy. There has to be something horribly wrong with you if it's taken you a year to get zero mouth action. Is it all the garlic you eat? Or—"

"I think," Derek says, and it tumbles out in a rush and breaks Stiles' heart to hear, "I think I'm just a terrible person."

Stiles can't breathe. He can't breathe hearing Derek say that, because he's wrong, he's _so wrong,_ Derek's not a terrible person, he's so _far_ from being a terrible person and Stiles doesn't have werewolf superhearing, but he can hear the truth ringing in those words and it _hurts._ Stiles acts before he thinks, putting his arm around Derek's back, loosely putting his hand on Derek's shoulder.

"I'm sure that's not true," Stiles says.

"You don't even know me," Derek says, still in that horrible, self-hating tone and it's taking all of Stiles' self-resolve not to yank Derek into a hug.

"Sure I do," Stiles says. Derek freezes. Oh. Maybe it's not the best idea for Derek to know now that Stiles know it's him. "You're Batman."

Derek lets out this heartbreaking, half-broken exhale and his shoulders tense under Stiles' light touch. His face is drawn, tense, like he's undergoing some terrible internal battle. One side of that war obviously wins as Derek's shoulders relax, just a little. "There's a problem," Derek says, quiet.

Stiles turns so he can see more of Derek's face. This close, he can see Derek's eyes, and the turmoil in them. "Yeah?" he prompts gently. Derek will clam up if that's what he needs.

"The person I kissed a year ago..." Derek says, and before Stiles can even hold his breath, Derek says, head slightly bowed, "I don't want to kiss anyone else."

"Oh," Stiles says. His throat is tight. His voice must sound funny when he manages to say, "Yeah. Yeah, I know that feeling." And does he _ever_. Kissing Derek, even though it was a stolen moment, even though he'd thought Derek had been appalled at it—

Stiles hasn't wanted anything since then more then he's wanted a repeat under better circumstances. Under better circumstances. With a Derek that actually _wanted_ him in return.

Derek laughs, but it's a horribly cynical sound, as he mutters, oddly bitter, "It is what it is."

Stiles' heart is thumping madly and if Derek wasn't so focussed on this weird self-loathing, he'd notice. Even a human might notice. Stiles' pulse is rabbit-like. "And this person?" Stiles asks. His voice is firmer now. Guiding. "Do they not want—"

"No," Derek says quickly. "No." And he so obviously _believes it_ that Stiles almost falls to the ground. If he hadn't been squeezing Derek's shoulder, a grip that tightened somewhere in the middle of Derek's quiet confession, he might have actually physically fallen.

"I'm sorry, dude," Stiles says, because he is sorry that Derek believes it. Because how can he _not_ know Stiles is crazy about him? "Are you sure? Have you... asked?" He smirks. "I mean, I'm going to suggest you ask naked." Because Stiles has gotten lucky, very likely, but he's always been the one to push the boundaries for more. Oliver Twist is totally his spirit animal. "Maybe lie in their bed, covered in whipped cream."

"Hilarious," Derek deadpans.

"I try," Stiles says, bumping Derek's side with his, and he can feel Derek tensing up again and he knows Derek's going to try to attempt to make an embarrassed run for it before Derek even gets the first words of a pathetic excuse out of his mouth.

"I gotta—" Derek starts, but before he can finish whatever terrible excuse his brain has panicked up for him, Scott proves why he's the absolute bestest bro in the world, because he stops Stiles having to fling an equally embarrassing plea at Derek to get him to stay.

"Yo," Stiles says, "Scott. What's up?"

Scott gives Derek a weird blank glance, obviously not realizing who it is, and moves forward looking at Stiles, and Stiles feels a little better that Scott's been fooled too. Scott has werewolf senses and shouldn't be as easily fooled as Stiles by a cheap, clingy, super hot costume.

"It's Derek!" Scott says.

Oh. Crap. Stiles really ought to give Scott more benefit of the doubt. Clearly those werewolf senses actually are working after all. Stiles winces as Derek backs away from him, and Stiles risks a glance. Derek looks absolutely _panicked_. Stiles might laugh if he wasn't feeling so sick.

But… if Scott has realized the Batman with Stiles is Derek… then why is Scott gesticulating like there's an incoming bad school report?

Stiles decides to clarify, to be sure, as Derek panics behind him. " _What's_

Derek?" He spares Derek a scandalized glance, because Derek's a grown adult and cowering in front of Scott is ridiculous.

"I mean _Derek's car_ ," Scott says. "It's down in the parking lot. He's back."

"Right," Stiles says, slow and measured. He can _feel_ Derek relaxing behind him, even though they're not touching anymore. "And yet the party's still going. Does that sound

like Derek's _back_ back?"

"Maybe he thought the noise was his neighbors?" Scott suggests, tilting his head. The door from inside clatters open again and Kira bounds through. Stiles eyeballs her critically, because how can such a hot girl take such a hot outfit and come out of the combination looking _cute_? Kira's a mess of contradictions for sure. Once he saw her wearing a prep school uniform and he didn't even have one dirty fantasy about her. That kind of talent is _wrong._

Maybe it's because he knows she could break his arm without breaking a sweat. That talent for violence has its prices.

"Or," Stiles says, slowly, because Scott is actually really clever. His plans are usually quick-witted and pay off and his GPA is reputably high. It's just these stunning moments of stupidity which give him a bad overall reputation of being a total space case. "Derek's an actual adult, realized we were conning him, and decided to be nice and give us a Halloween off?"

"Oh," Scott says and winces. The wince is appropriate. Stiles _hated_ the plan. They all deserve to grovel to Derek later. The only interesting part now is that Stiles might have a rainbow of new options to facilitate making it up to him. "You think he knew we were messing with him?"

"Probably."

"Aw, shit."

"He's a good guy. He'll understand," Kira says, beaming. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's deliberately hanging back so we can have fun. He's like that."

She hasn't clocked Derek either. Stiles wonders how Derek's reacting to her cool confidence in him. Stiles would blush, but Derek's probably much too composed for that. Derek and Kira have the cutest bromance going on, actually. Probably akin to the relationship Derek used to think he and Scott might have, before he realized Stiles was inhabiting all the bromance slots Scott had available. Um, although there might be a better way to phrase that.

Anyway, Derek and Kira are adorable. They even have matching Thor and Loki clothes. Stiles might have smiled for a week off that mental image.

"Yeah," Scott says. "I'll talk to him afterwards though and apologize."

"You're a good guy too, baby," Kira says, kissing him noisily on the cheek, her blonde wig smacking Scott in the face. Scott smiles goofily while Stiles pretends to gag at the pet name.

"You coming back inside?" Scott says to Stiles.

Stiles can almost feel Derek's gaze on the back of his neck. Derek hadn't quite grown out of his creepy stalker powers. "Nah, just need some more air," Stiles says and behind him, Derek exhales in a way that tells Stiles firmly he's made the right decision, even though Scott's given him an easy escape. "And I found me a better Batman."

Scott's gaze turns to Derek's and after a moment, nods at Derek. "Batman," Scott says, and it's the worst Batman impression Stiles has ever heard.

"Batman," Derek greets back with a nod, maybe the second-worst Batman impression.

Stiles is silent as Scott and Kira go back into the loft, leaning into each other making happy cooing sounds that Stiles wipes from his memory. Derek's silent too. Stiles counts his own breaths.

He's done pretending. It's time to face Derek. He can't risk letting Derek spill any more secrets, not when Derek doesn't know Stiles has realized it's him.

"Look," Derek says as the door closes, starting to move towards it, and yeah, Stiles should have expected Derek would try to run. "It's been fun. But, y'know, Gotham needs me, and—"

" _Wait,_ " Stiles exhales, faster than he means it to be, probably too harsh by the way that Derek automatically stops, like Stiles has barked a threat at him. "Just one more question," Stiles says, and the _please_ is unspoken, but Derek swallows and nods like he's heard it anyway.

Derek stays still, almost frozen, so it's up to Stiles to move closer. He tries to keep his movement slow, smooth, so as not to frighten Derek away, because Derek looks like one small startle and he'll _run._ Probably do one of those unnecessary backflips from the balcony in the process, because werewolves are melodramatic idiots.

Stiles moves closer and he can't breathe. Because Derek's watching every one of Stiles' movements, every footstep, every breath, and he feels _powerful._ He'd asked Derek to wait and he'd just stopped still.

Somehow, Derek's allowed Stiles to have power over him, and Stiles isn't going to mess this up.

He's going to do things _right_. With sheer surprise that his hand isn't trembling, Stiles puts up his hand, covers the Batman logo with his fingers and carefully presses his hand into Derek's chest. Stiles isn't trembling but Derek is. Stiles has to do this gently. And he knows how to do it. He might not be a werewolf, and he might not be able to do unnecessary showy backflips, but he can be just as melodramatic as the best of them.

"Just how," Stiles says, slowly, eyeing the offending costume as he does so, "without Lydia giving you it, did you manage to match all the other werewolves and dress up as Batman anyway?"


	6. Chapter 6

Derek's been hit in the head so many times that he knows it's normal sometimes to have missing memories of when the actual blow happened. The after effects are always highly distinctive. His head is pounding, his chest hurts, and there might even be warm liquid pricking at his eyes. Yeah, something clocked him all right. Right?

He blinks down at Stiles' hand on his chest, the warmth permeating through the spandex and coiling right through Derek's body. He's outside in the cold on an October night and if he closes his eyes, he'd never be able to tell you that for certain.

By instinct he counts Stiles' fingers. One thumb and four fingers and okay, he's awake. But, as aforementioned, possibly with a major head injury?

Stiles is looking up at him with an unbearably fond expression. His mouth – his exceedingly distracting, usually annoying mouth – is curved at the edges. Smug. It's one of Stiles' smuggest expressions. But it's less irritating than usual. There's something more… overwhelmed about it, mixed with genuine happiness that's making Derek's chest weirdly tight.

Derek blinks several times. He probably should say something. Something coherent. Something to explain why Derek's been a giant idiot and has probably horribly offended Stiles but if so, why isn't Stiles shrieking and running away?

Stiles, as Derek knows firsthand, is very capable of that and oh, my god, Derek told him that he wanted to kiss him.

Derek _knew_ he was saying to Stiles that he wanted to kiss him. But he hadn't known _Stiles_ would have any clue that he was saying it deliberately—and _why_ had Derek even said it in the first place?

_You were testing the water. Because if he ran away screaming from Batman, at least you didn't have to suffer the humiliation of Stiles knowing it was you saying those words._

Except… Oh, yeah, one of Derek's plans has failed again.

Why is that _always a surprise_? Derek's plans always fail. It's just one of those facts. Kira can pick up any new weapon and wield it well within a week. Isaac will wear inappropriate woollen clothing even when the temperature runs into triple figures. Scott is an actual human puppy. Derek's plans fail.

Stiles still isn't shrieking and running away, though. Derek struggles through a moment of not being able to breathe and says something.

"Um," Derek manages, beautifully eloquent.

Stiles' smile widens, into something resembling genuine delight, and Derek's chest feels like someone's smacked him with a hammer and this is ridiculous. Derek needs to know what's really going on here.

Which means he needs to manage human language. Coherent human language. Understandable English words and not incoherent syllables.

"Er," Derek says. No, wait, that's a fail. He needs words. A sentence. "I think I need some air." _Brilliant, Hale. Top of the class._

"We're outside," Stiles says, eyes tracking across Derek's face like he's looking for signs of major impairment.

"Oh." Derek blinks. "Maybe I need to sit down?"

"On the ground?" For some reason, Stiles sounds unutterably amused. More so than usual. Derek wants to know what the joke is. Stiles is good at jokes. Not that Derek would ever tell Stiles that to his face.

There are a whole heap of things Derek should never tell Stiles to his face and he probably just told him the worst one and oh, god, oh, god, he really needs to sit down. Stiles said the ground. Stiles is clever. Stiles… sinks down onto the ground with him as they lean against the wall.

Oh.

Maybe Stiles thinks Derek's just had some sort of major breakdown. A nervous breakdown. Or a mental break?

This is ridiculous. Derek's being ridiculous. He's an adult now, the oldest sane adult of the Hale lineage (well the sane is apparently very debatable, but if he's crazy, so are Cora and Malia. And Peter's nowhere near sane. Sane and Peter have very different zip codes.) He needs to figure out what's going on, whether maybe… Well, Stiles' hand is still on Derek's chest. Maybe Derek's quiet pining hasn't been quite as unreciprocated as he's been telling himself?

And oh, the implications if that's true—Because Derek's never even thought past _what if Stiles…?_ and then he's never let himself think Stiles _might_ —And Stiles is only eighteen—And—Derek needs to calm down and find out what's going on and take it from there and not count his chickens and also to stop thinking in clichés because Stiles is probably going to try to exorcize him or something if he doesn't try and manage a rational conversation soon.

Okay. Start with the basics. How long has Stiles known that he… is definitely not Batman?

"How did you—" Derek starts.

"Dude. Spandex is not exactly the thing you wear if you want to _hide,_ " Stiles says. "Especially when your mask only goes up to _here._ " Stiles touches his own nose at that comment.

"Point taken," Derek sighs.

Stiles moves his hand away from his chest and Derek makes a noise of disappointment before he can stop it. Derek's instantly frozen and he's busy wondering whether he can blame the noise on the loudness of the music, so loud the windows are rattling in their frames, or how cold it is outside, and then he's not wondering anything – because Stiles has thrown himself forwards, long limbs all over the place, and he's pulling Derek into a weird difficult semi-hug, considering their legs are jostling together because Derek's inability to react normally has left them sitting on the cold, damp wooden floor.

He makes the _best_ decisions in life. Except, maybe the sarcasm should take its leave from that sentence, because Stiles is pressing his nose against Derek's jawline and…

Yeah. _Yeah._ Derek could get used to this.

"I don’t know whether this is out of character," Stiles says.

Derek's about to say yeah, it probably is.

"I'm not old enough to have seen much of the Adam West Batman to be sure about it," Stiles continues. "Did he ever hug his Dick Grayson?"

Derek's brain isn't working on all cylinders, so he latches onto the tangent quicker than he probably should. "I'm hardly much older than you," Derek immediately returns. "Why would I know?"

"Huh." Stiles' breath is warm in contrast to the biting outside cold. "I keep forgetting we were in high school at the same time for a while."

"It's because it feels like another lifetime ago." Like Derek was another person.

"If Adam West Batman felt anything like as good you do, I bet his Robin hugged him all the time."

"The sixties were pretty good when it came to homoerotic subtext."

"See," Stiles says, pulling back so he's not resting against Derek, but his arms stay tangled in Derek's. It's nice. It's _really_ nice. Derek can't help but stare at Stiles. Like he's going to blow away like their capes have. "That's why I keep forgetting you're only a few years older. Because you say shit like that which makes it sound like you were _in_ the sixties."

"Maybe I was," Derek says, trying to sound enigmatic. "Maybe you're… kind of hugging an old man."

"Nah, Robin doesn't hug old men," Stiles says.

"Because it's out of character," Derek says. Because maybe that's this moment, but that's okay. Maybe right now they're Batman and Robin, and they can hug.

"Yeah," Stiles says, his fingers sliding up to Derek's shoulders. His eyes are locked on Derek's now, brimming with something undefined, something charged. "Except maybe Batman XXX hugs people. I don't know. I haven't seen it yet."

Something deep inside Derek lurches unsteadily. His voice is unsteady when he asks, "Batman… XXX?"

"The porn parody," Stiles says.

"Oh, god."

Stiles grin turns towards the more manic variety. "Was that a _oh, the internet_ mournful cry, or—"

"More like a _don't talk about porn while I'm wearing spandex_ mournful cry," Derek says, slowly, because he needs to gauge whether he's been reading this interaction correctly. He should probably be wondering why this is possibly happening, and why _now,_ but maybe he understands. Because if this goes wrong, they can play it off – it can be out of character, because they're Batman and Robin right now, not Derek and Stiles.

"Jesus _christ_ ," Stiles blasphemes, pushing it out like it's all one word. Derek listens for his heartbeat automatically and it's picked up in rate and he probably didn't need supernatural hearing for that. Stiles' fingers fumble on his shoulders and pink brightens across Stiles' exposed cheekbones. "Yeah, cheap spandex was not really designed to hide a hard-on, was it?"

"Well," Derek says, forcing all his willpower together to _not look down_ ;he's dressed like Batman and maybe that's lending him some bravery, "we could get out of here. Swap the spandex for some normal clothes."

Stiles' hands move again, and he tentatively puts his fingers on top of Derek's nearest hand. "Yeah? What would we do then, huh?"

The question and Stiles' intent expression are laden with promise and Derek feels giddy. "I— Whatever?" Derek instantly internally curses, because that's not the coherent question he wanted to get out. He was going to suavely ask Stiles for coffee, because coffee's good. They can talk. Breathe. Listen to their own heads without the horrendous party music clouding the air.

"There's a place on Peterson's that does all night coffee," Stiles says, with a forced casualness.

Derek can't help the smile that follows. His cheeks ache with it. But he has to know. He has to be sure. "Stiles," he says, forcing himself to be slow. He moves and takes Stiles' hands between both of his own. "If you don't correct me, I am going to assume this is a date. Correct me now and I promise I'll not mention it again or anything either of us said tonight. But you have to know the assumption I'm going in with here."

Stiles is frozen for a moment and it is one of the things that causes Derek to almost flinch, because even though it's been nearly two years since the nogitsune, that had been one of the main differences. Stiles was a frenetic ball of energy, someone who couldn't be still for longer than a minute unless someone's life was at stake. The nogitsune, riding his body, made it still. Made each movement careful. They'll never be free of what these evil creatures have taken from them, not really. But maybe it doesn't have to mean _constant_ misery. Derek was busy trapping himself in his own guilt and misery when he came into the party, and Stiles, as always, managed to lift him right out again.

But then Stiles moves again, and Derek can breathe, even if he's about to get the hope burgeoning inside him – t _hat he might get to have this, that he might get to keep whatever thing this is simmering between them_ – completely and resolutely dashed to pieces.

Stiles, when his reply comes, is not graceful. Then again, he rarely ever is. "If you're fucking messing with me I'll slice your balls off."

"And there went _my_ boner," Derek says, probingly light, ready to make this into a joke if that's what Stiles' choice is. "Funny how—"

Stiles launches himself forwards, frenetic movement and limbs, and smashes his mouth against Derek's. Derek's head smacks back into the wall from the force. The kiss is clumsy, and pretty terrible, all truth be told, right until Stiles' fingers reach up and rip the terrible plastic mask from Derek's face, and he hisses, "You, you fucking attractive asshole, of _course_ it's a fucking date," and it's the most amazing moment in Derek's life, hands down.

"I'm sure that sidekicks aren't supposed to insult their heroes," Derek says, mock pompously, before nosing along Stiles' jaw, reaching up to undo Stiles' mask at the same time. It drops to the ground in the scant space between them. Even though it was just a scrap of cloth, the movement feels almost unbearably intimate.

"Mm, the sidekicks don't end up kissing the heroes usually, either," Stiles says. He looks punch-drunk, smug like the world belongs to him, and Derek's normally annoyed by Stiles' smirks, but this one… he's kinda okay with. When Stiles presses his mouth to Derek's this time, careful like he might actually turn into a bat and fly away, it's an infinitely better kiss. Derek barely notices that they're outside, in freezing cold, in thin, skin-tight spandex until he runs his fingers over Stiles' defined arms and yeah, then he notices, in all the best ways.

"It's okay," Derek says when they pull apart to breathe, "I'm after you taking on a different position."

Stiles' smirk widens and he rests his forehead against Derek's and struggles to catch his breath. Derek watches his chest go up and down and thinks very bad things, all in a row, and finds the answer to Stiles' previous question is yes, spandex is _hell_ on a hard-on.

"We should—" Stiles starts, then frowns, then takes a breath and pulls back to look Derek in the eye. "That date. Before I do anything embarrassing."

Derek frowns, because—

"I bet there are some stains that never come out of spandex," Stiles says and Derek has to look away and breathe _holy hell_ and Stiles laughs at him. Derek looks at him with an injured expression, but it fades away, because Stiles… Stiles just looks so damn _happy._

_I did that,_ Derek thinks.

"C'mon," Stiles says, and picks up Derek's abandoned mask, pushing it into his hands. He looks pointedly at the party and Derek slides the mask back on as he gets to his feet. Letting go of Stiles to does so is highly annoying."Let's get downstairs and flee before Lydia can stop me," Stiles suggests, sliding his own eyemask back on. He holds his hand out, wiggling his fingers, and Derek takes them. It's like coming _home._ "You coming?"

Derek smirks. "Maybe later."

* * *

They manage to get out of the party without anyone really clocking them leaving. Danny does, but he just looks from Stiles to Derek and gives Stiles a thumbs-up and lets them go. And Derek? Derek just lets Stiles hold his hand, all the way down the stairs to the cars below.

They land on the sidewalk outside and stare at each other uncertainly beneath the warm amber glow of a streetlamp. Stiles' cheeks are endearingly pink.

"I'll, uh, my jeans and shirt are in the back of my Jeep," Stiles mutters, thumbing at Roscoe.

Derek nods awkwardly at his car. "We should—" Derek says, and Stiles nods, and they slowly walk apart from each other. It would be comical if Derek wasn't so… _happy_? It's been so long that he's suddenly, terribly scared.

Happiness is usually followed quickly by utter despair.

_It's not going to happen like that, not this time,_ Derek silently vows, and hurries to his car, unlocking it and pulling out his clothes. Feeling awkward, like he's entirely made of too-long limbs, Derek pulls the clothes over the costume because there's no way he's stripping in public. He detaches the belt and mask, pulls off the gloves and soft costume boots to replace them with his own boots and tugs his shirt over the costume, throwing his jacket on to cover up the gray sleeves of the batsuit and feels like a champion for only looking over to where Stiles is doing the same, except with Stiles' usual less-than-adroit charm. Derek suppresses a smile when Stiles bangs his elbow against the window and then looks away when Stiles bends over to remove the stupid shoes his costume came with.

Except, maybe Derek's _allowed_ to look now? Hm. No. No, that's wrong. Stiles and he are heading out on a date. He's feeling a little giddy about it. Hanging around teenagers has done nothing for his mental age. He's probably smiling like an idiot. He adjusts the sleeves of the costume, pushing them further up under his jacket, slides his wallet and phone into his jacket pocket, and peeks up in time to see Stiles wrestle his own phone out of his shoe.

Derek catches a glimpse of his reflection in his car window and yeah, he's grinning like someone on the news when they've just won the lottery and that feels about apt. He's going to go get coffee with Stiles, and talk a little, and then hopefully he'll get to kiss Stiles again. Yup, his smile isn't going to fade any time soon.

  
"God, that smile of yours is absolutely disgusting," a voice says from behind Derek and he was wrong. His smile fades instantly because he knows that voice. He turns, slowly turning his expression into a grimace as he sees the familiar figure leaning against the neighboring car.

" _You,_ " Derek says, not hiding how unhappy he is at this development.

"Y'know, there are downsides to getting your sight magically repaired," Deucalion drawls.

Derek glares and keeps his hands hanging loosely at his side, ready to draw his claws out if needs be. Stiles is still a few cars away, which means he's hopefully safe, unless Deucalion's brought back-up. Derek can hear Stiles' heartbeat, though, and it's calm. Stiles is safe at the moment and Derek plans to keep him that way. Even if it means ripping out Deucalion's throat right here in the parking lot.

"What do you want?" Derek growls, letting his eyes flash blue for a moment, warning Deucalion just what he'll do if Deucalion tries anything.

Deucalion smiles slowly. Derek's smile was giddy. Deucalion's is cold. Cruel. "Can't a fella come by and see some old friends?"

"Not when that _fella_ is you."

"Ah, Stiles, still favoring the sporting equipment, I see," Deucalion says, without tearing his amused gaze from Derek's face.

Derek glances back to see Stiles tighly holding a football, both hands squeezing the pointed ends. He's quit bothering to question what Stiles even thinks he's going to do with the stuff he tries to turn into impromptu weapons. Besides, the golf balls had been pretty inspired, even though Isaac had come afoul of them more than the goblins had.

"All the better to smash you in the face with, D," Stiles calls out, stepping forward and moving automatically to Derek's side.

Deucalion smiles at him, all human teeth. "As much as I love to stand and exchange witticisms, I didn't just drop by for some candy and a dance." Deucalion looks up pointedly in the direction of Derek's loft, at the sounds of the party reaching down as far as the street.

"Good," Stiles says. "I ate all the candy already."

Derek's about to question that, but there's actually a faint taste of sugar in his mouth: it's probably true. "And he can't really dance," Derek says, faintly apologetic.

"Hey," Stiles says, smacking Derek in the arm with the ball, "I resemble that remark."

"Why _did_ you come by?" Derek asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Deucalion's smile fades and he looks them both straight on. "I came," Deucalion says, "because I need your help."


	7. Chapter 7

"Funny," Stiles says, glaring at Deucalion like he's the seventh coming of Peter Hale, "you need help, I need to put a hole in your _skull_ —"

Yeah, Stiles has never quite gotten over Scott and Derek just letting Deucalion go two years ago.

It has had its benefits, like when he hired Braeden occasionally to save their asses (right until Braeden got tired, quit the enigmatic lifestyle and joined the pack because it was exhausting commuting to them all the time when she needed to save their lives.)

It's also had its sucky moments.

Like when the excess power Deucalion had sucked up to become the demon wolf escaped and became a sentient entity.

Or when he apparently _accidentally_ told five hunting packs where Beacon Hills was.

Or that time he drunk dialled Stiles in the middle of math class and Stiles did _not need to know that much information about Duke's sex life._

And then there was the time he got Stiles hit with an obedience curse. At the exact same time Jackson came back to Beacon Hills for the summer. That had been one of the most _excruciating_ experiences of Stiles' life and once upon a time he was possessed by an evil mass murdering fox. Oh, god, Jackson's smirk when he realized he wasn't the only one in the group who'd been magically used as a tool for serial killing, that had totally been the worst part and that was saying a _lot_ , because Stiles had not needed to know that he looked as good in a mini skirt as he does.

"I missed you too," Deucalion smirks.

Derek sighs and glances at Stiles. "Do you think Scott would hear his phone above the music?"

Stiles resists the smirk at how much Derek struggled with saying the word _music_ as a description for the noise currently going on in his loft. "Lydia put phone pockets in the outfits," Stiles says, warmed that Derek's looking for his opinion. "Completely useless ones. I had to shove mine in my shoe , but I don't know whether—" 

"I don't _need_ Scott," Deucalion interrupts, rolling his eyes. "I actually just came for some advice from Derek. So if you could excuse us for a moment—"

Deucalion actually tries to put his arm around Derek's elbow, steering him away. Stiles stares, open-mouthed.

"If you think for one second—" Stiles starts.

"Anything you can say to me you can say to Stiles," Derek says, cutting off what was going to be a very hilarious insult. Seriously. It was going to be _beautiful._ Stiles is still too much on a high from kissing Derek to be annoyed at him for the interruption though.

Deucalion's eyebrows curve towards his hairline, but he doesn't try and put Derek off. "Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?"

Derek quirks another glance at Stiles and Stiles' insides wither and he internally cries because _no,_ he's supposed to be having his first date now with Derek (Stiles' internal thoughts on that are something along the lines of _sldjalsjdlasjdlkjWTFBBQ!!!111~~~_ ) at Peterson's diner, not some crazy-ass business meeting with an ex-psycho.

Sadly, Stiles forever falls for nutjobs with foibles and Derek's main foible will forever be putting the greater good before his own happiness. Sigh. Unfortunately it's a big part of why Stiles likes the dork so much.

"Peterson's," Stiles says, so Derek doesn't have to be the one to say it. Derek's mouth flattens and his eyes go soft for a second, like he understands exactly why Stiles spoke up.

He does. He knows Stiles. The last two years have been that for them, a slow growth from fear and hatred to friendship and absolute trust. So really, them dating is just the next inevitable step, if Stiles thinks about it.

"Lead the way," Deucalion says, gesturing into the night.

"First things first," Stiles says and pulls out his phone, texting furiously. "Gotta let the kids know where we're going."

**Going 2 Peterson's w/ Derek and Duke. If I don't txt every 30 minutes until an all-clear sign, ALERT THE CAVALRY,** he types, then quickly checks the box of the contact group _PACK._ Thank goodness for cellphone packages with text allowances in the thousands.

"Good idea," Derek says, glaring at Deucalion like he might try something. The suspicion is warranted. When Stiles got smacked by that obedience curse that time at least he didn't suffer the curse _Derek_ got hit with. Seriously, there's a reason they rarely watch anything marine-related, a reason they never go to the Beacon Aquarium and a reason why sometimes Derek will just sit cross-legged in the middle of the loft eating the entire content of downtown's Takoyaki Cart with his fingers, scowling the whole time. There's one reason that covers all of that and they _do not talk about it ever._

Derek takes the lead, showing Deucalion the way, and Stiles walks behind, tucking the football under one arm and checking his phone as texts come in.

_omG MELINda maY?!!!?!?_ Kira texts back, over-excited. She's a Marvel girl. Scott doesn't know how lucky he has it to find a Marvel girl willing to dress DC for him. Then, a second later: _oh sorry. lol. us. we're the cavalry, haha._

_if you took the costume off there will be consequences,_ Lydia's text warns. Stiles lifts up his t-shirt to snap a quick photo of the top part of the costume and he sends it to her with a smug smirk. He technically _is_ still wearing the costume, thank you very much.

_Duke of what?_ Mason-or-Liam texts back. No one ever knows which is which when it comes to texting because they swap phones so constantly.

_PLEASE SAY THERE IS PUNCHING FOR ME TO DO ON THE HORIZON_ is Malia's response. She knows how to use modern technology now, but it's one of the things she didn't pick up super quickly (hence the constant capslock), because she'd only ever _heard_ technology being used. She'd never got to really see it in action until she was back to being mostly human.

Stiles is still eternally amused by how much of a giant freaking troll Malia can be. Like when she first joined Beacon Hills High. She used to pretend to know nothing, like she'd spent the whole eight years in the woods just frolicking in the meadows and peeing against trees. Instead, Malia had spent a lot of the time prowling around making sure (who she thought was) her dad was okay. This involved listening to a lot of the same bad quiz shows he was watching, so her trivia knowledge is _insane._ If Stiles wants to win a pub quiz, he makes sure Malia's available.

The rest of the time, Malia used to force herself to go sit outside the school and use her shapeshifter enhanced superhearing to listen in on classes. Seriously. Malia had every chance to run around in the forest the whole time and blow off education and she _voluntarily_ went to school _._ Stiles feels that fundamentally as a teenager he should probably mock her dubious life choices, but he doesn't.

Especially because he understands. She explained it to the pack just once: when you're alone, school is tough. School feels like a punishment. She killed her mother and sister and deserved to be punished. So she went to school and listened and did her best to keep up. Because she was a coyote, and everything was simple, and she didn't have to feel anything but alive and powerful, and she didn't have to do homework, or deal with other humans… but she still had penance to do. A whole lot of penance.

And even when the wild called Malia's name, encouraging her to abandon the human world, Malia remembered that her sister would never get the chance to finish school. So Malia decided she had to do it for her. Except… stuck in coyote form, it was difficult. She had to wait until everyone was in class and then she would slink up against the school walls, or curl up on the roof by the vents, where the teacher's voices carried up into the sky, and sneak off before the final bell, so no one would see her. Then she'd go home and patrol around her dad until nightfall, when the forest became her playground. When she could crawl up into her den with the last thing that smelled of her sister and know deep in her bones that nothing would be the same ever again.

Of course, human Malia spent her first semester at school pretending to be as dumb as a cloud. Right up until exams, where she aced each one in succession and was entirely smug about it for _weeks._ Seriously, even Scott fell for the dumb girl act, which is ridiculous, because they've all known Lydia for forever and she does the self-same thing, only on a grander, more make-up involving scale. Stiles didn't fully understand why he fell for it, because Scott's a werewolf. He should know transforming into an animal doesn't automatically give you an animal brain. According to Derek, when his mom was in wolf mode, sometimes she became even _smarter._ More than human.

Stiles doesn't like to get Derek onto the topic of his mom too much. He knows the feeling. It's easy to get strung up, tied up with sad memories, and forget to live. And Stiles knows his mom wouldn't be pleased if Stiles forgot to live, especially if it was thinking about _her_ that was making him shut the world away.

In another lifetime, Malia would have probably been Stiles' perfect girl. But they'd been through too much to be anything but two broken pieces that could fit in a tight space because of their massively missing edges. They fit in the right space but their jigsaw edges didn't lock _._ Stiles loved her anyway, but it was kind of more a… Stockholm syndrome sort of thing. They both survived the same sort of something together and that formed a bond which would never be broken, but anything more… They tried for maybe five seconds to be a something together, and it flamed and burned and Stiles knew then it was impossible for him not to love her, but it was impossible for him to be _in_ love with her. Holly Golightly had it right: you can't love a wild thing.

Then again, speaking of wild things, there's Derek. Malia's cousin. Stiles thinks back to his brief flame of a crush on Cora and winces. Damn. He's probably got a type and it comes with creative and violent threats, dramatically intense eyebrows and epic eye-rolling. Ah, well, it could be worse. _It could have extended to the earlier generation._ Stiles thinks of Peter for one second and has to hold back the retching. Thankfully, his crushing is apparently restricted to the current generation of Hales. One very much in particular. The hottest one. The one that is like the nearest living human replica of the _sun._ The one who _kissed him just minutes previously._ Yeah, Stiles is going to be floating on clouds for _months_ over this.

It's hard to think of Derek as a wild thing. Not when Stiles has seen Derek frowning at his furniture at the denouement of a pack meeting and surreptitiously pull out anti-bacterial spray to wipe down the surfaces. And he's seen Derek's collection of _National Geographic_ magazines. And his color-coded budget and insurance documentation. Yeah, Derek _wishes_ he was a wild thing, but he's actually a closet conservative.

When Stiles looks up from his phone next, they're only a few blocks away from Peterson's, which is a surprise. Stiles would normally be much more observational, but his brain is going off on a weird retrospective tangent. Maybe because if he doesn't fill up his brain with stupid stuff, he'll keep replaying the evening's events so far in his head and Stiles wants to _burst_ with it all. He's also highly aware of his own body's ability to hideously embarrass him. The last thing he wants to do is sit through any time with Deucalion while trying to desperately to will away a boner.

Nope, Stiles needs to keep his brain as occupied as possible, and not with thoughts of how warm Derek's mouth was when pressed against his, and not with thoughts of how Derek's stubble provides the most delicious slide of friction when pushed against his skin, and not with thoughts about how Derek likes him, about how Derek wants to _date_ him, about how Derek made a disturbing number of innuendo-laden utterances in a very short span of time.

Deucalion quirks a look back at Stiles and wrinkles his nose and Stiles buries his face in his phone, oh my _god._ Project: No Erections Around Bad Guys is one thousand per cent a _go._

Thankfully, Stiles has the best bro ever, and Scott can be counted from to save Stiles from himself. He busies himself texting Scott as they finish the walk to Peterson's, answering random questions in-between random bantering. Yes, he intends on having some of their yellow pound cake because that's basically _the_ reason to go to Peterson's. Yes, he'll damn well have extra sugar in his coffee because coffee isn't coffee unless it makes you bounce off the walls afterwards. No, Deucalion isn't bald yet, wtf Scott. No, he is not going to ask Deucalion to friend Scott on facebook, **_what is wrong with you Scott._**

By the time Stiles looks up from his phone answering the last barrage of Scott's increasingly frantic texts – **_seriously, Scott, I swear, going blind from it is a total lie_ ** – they're at the doors to Peterson's diner.

This meeting thing might actually have promise after all, Stiles thinks, perking up when several good things happen in a row. Derek doesn't even glance twice at Kasia, even though she's the hottest waitress in the entirety of Beacon County. Derek orders Stiles' coffee the way he likes it (coffee, more coffee, _extra coffee_ ) and an extra-large slice of the yellow pound cake when Stiles mutters "the usual", even though if Stiles thinks back he's only been here maybe twice with Derek over the last year, and that had been with the whole pack. Derek even manoeuvres them to one of Stiles' favorite booths, climbing in first because he knows that Stiles doesn't like to be trapped against the window, but shuffling when Stiles sits down so that their legs are pressed together even though there's plenty of space and no need.

Derek decidedly doesn't look at Stiles during that last part as he gestures for Deucalion to sit opposite them, but there's a hint of pink across Derek's cheeks that makes Stiles' stomach warm pleasantly. He ducks his head into the giant cup of coffee, slurping it noisily for a few seconds in the vain hope it will cover up what is very likely the sound of his heart thumping like it's trying to beat its way out of his chest. Like in _Alien._ Only less creepy killer fetus, more gooey inner organ.

"Isn't this cozy," Deucalion says.

Derek has both of his hands on the table. He taps his fingers against his coffee cup. "Get to the point, Duke. I have plans."

Deucalion's gaze travels slowly from Derek to Stiles and back again. "So I see."

Stiles' cheeks color deeper despite himself, which just makes Deucalion's smile widen.

Derek's eyes flash blue, just for a second, and he taps his coffee cup again – this time the sound is a hollow clang. His claws are out, just a little. Just enough to be present as a threat. Derek holds Deucalion's stare and retracts the claw, because the message has been given.

"I came back tonight for one reason," Deucalion says, lying both hands on the table. "As you can appreciate, not everyone is thankful that you and Scott saved my life two years ago."

"We never would have guessed," Stiles says. He glances to his left to see Derek suppressing a smirk.

"Cute," Deucalion says, rolling his eyes.

Stiles turns slightly to Derek, who mirrors the angle. "I mean, I think I'm cute," Stiles says, faux-conspiratorially.

"I don't think he meant you," Derek says.

"Why do the bad guys never think I'm cute? I'm _adorable._ "

"Do you _want_ the bad guys to find you cute?"

"Maybe if you went to villainy?"

Derek wrinkles his mouth, considering it.

"I'm going to throw up," Deucalion says.

"I should introduce you to my friend-quaintance Jared someday. You'd get on _famously,_ " Stiles says.

Deucalion narrows his eyes, which just makes Stiles grin – he _loves_ it when he can annoy people just by talking. It's always been his best skill.

"Just say why you're here," Derek says. "Quickly. Or I'll let Stiles banter you to death."

"I know a thousand Scott McCall facts that will kill you slowly," Stiles confirms. "Like that time Scott and Superman were about to fight, so they made a bet. The loser had to wear their underpants over their pants."

"Scott threw an ogre in a bottomless pit last summer," Derek says, conversationally. "It hit the bottom."

Stiles smothers a grin, because Stiles can do smug, and he really should be gloating that _Derek has the best sense of humor ever and by the way, who kissed him earlier? This guy!_ but grinning like a lovestruck fool would probably be too much for Deucalion's frail sensibilities.

Damn, Stiles is currently pressed up along an _excellent_ specimen, though. A sentiment Derek punctuates when he slides his right hand over Stiles' left leg under the cover of the table, his thumb curving possessively into the muscle of his thigh. Stiles manfully represses his shiver for Deucalion's sake, even though the once-demon wolf doesn't know how strong Stiles is being right now.

"I can't believe I don't have better west-coast contacts," Deucalion sighs. "I swear, you go on a little worldwide rampage for werewolf blood and guts for just a couple of years and your contact list just shrivels right up. It's _exhausting._ "

"Get to the point," Derek says. His voice and face are both calm, nothing on his face betraying the actions of his hand below. Stiles fights to keep his breathing even, but it's a losing battle. At the feel of Derek's thumb dragging across his leg in an idle path, Stiles inhales sharply, and the corner of Derek's mouth quirks up. Derek looks terribly pleased with himself. Yeah, Stiles is going to find some way to get back at him. A feeling of hazy pleasure curls up Stiles' spine. Mm. Maybe later. But there _will_ be revenge. Public, sexy revenge.

"There's a book in the penthouse apartment that we hired the first time we were here," Deucalion says, speedily, like they're in danger of being interrupted soon. Stiles starts to eat his cake, just in case Deucalion can hear incoming trouble that Derek can't. "It's a book of… white witchcraft. Harmless on it own, apart from one unique enchantment I need."

"And we're supposed to let you anywhere near magic again after last time because—?" Stiles prompts.

"Because there's a Nemeton gone wrong in the underground space below Sydney harbor which if it goes unchecked will suck practically all of New South Wales into it," Deucalion says. There's no hint of sarcasm in his tone. Stiles quickly looks at Derek and pats at his chest meaning _heartbeat_.

Derek stills the movement of his thumb for just a moment before starting again, meaning his heartbeat is steady. Deucalion's not lying.

"That spell in the book can bind it, stop this calamity from happening. You know I'm not always inclined to acts of philanthropy as I was, once upon a time," Deucalion says. "But Port Jackson doesn't just have one of the largest communities of werewolves in the southern hemisphere, but also the biggest supernatural library in the world. We don't have time to move the books. There's only one book known to have a binding spell strong enough and I apparently owned the only existing copy of that book."

"In your old penthouse apartment," Stiles says. "In _Beacon Hills._ The town of mindless tragedy and countless unexplained abandoned buildings."

"I didn't know then it was the only surviving copy of the book."

Stiles sighs and turns back to his cake. Bad guy logic never sits well with him.

"The penthouse was in the apartment block where the Argents used to live, right?" Derek says. "It's still standing. Why can't you get the book yourself?"

Deucalion wrinkles his nose in a way that is werewolf for _there is a lot of trouble associated with this and I am probably the reason for all that trouble._

"Let me guess," Stiles says through a mouthful of delicious sugary crumbs, "it's not that simple."

"I couldn't hear a word you said," Deucalion says, "but unfortunately, young Mr. Hale, it's not that simple."

"How—" Stiles starts, spraying cake over the table. He swallows down a lump of soggy cake and squints at Derek and Deucalion apologetically. "How are _we_ supposed to help you?"

"Well," Deucalion says, his eyes flashing blue for a second, which is hella weird, because isn't Deucalion still supposed to be an Alpha? "I tried to enter the apartment this afternoon," Deucalion says and Stiles realizes that the blue isn't Deucalion's eyes, it's a blue light dappling across his cheek with a matching red patch on the booth behind him, and then the light disappears, and yeah, Stiles knows _just_ what makes that pattern of red and blue light, oh, _man._ Stiles has to be imagining it. He  _can't_ have timing this bad, it's so unfair. "The weirdest thing happened," Deucalion continues and Stiles twists to look out the window. His stomach plummets and he winces.

"What the hell," Stiles mutters, pushing the remnants of the cake into his cheeks and gulping down a mouthful of coffee to push it down.

"Exactly," Deucalion says, gesturing with both hands exaggeratedly for a couple of seconds. "I fear it _might_ be hell. It's incredibly disturbing."

"Not what I'm talking about," Stiles says, rubbing at both eyebrows and sighing audibly as the doors to the diner open.

"What—?" Derek starts and then twists in his seat to look back. He turns back quickly, looking ashen-faced. "Stiles," Derek says, sounding a little strangled. His eyes are a little wide. It would be funny if Stiles wasn't internally crying. "Is it normal procedure to—"

"—have an official police presence in every town in Beacon County on Halloween night?" Stiles finishes weakly.

Derek looks like he wants to melodramatically backflip out of the diner's window. He doesn't. He also doesn't remove his hand from Stiles' leg, which would probably be the sane thing to do, and that… weirdly makes Stiles feel braver.

He and Derek are having a _thing_. A _thing_ where Derek might even be willing to voluntarily deal with Stiles' insane lunatic of a father. And if Derek can face that, what _can't_ Stiles face?

Stiles turns to where his dad is comically frozen halfway to the counter. His hand is still suspended in the air, from where he'd started to try and get Kasia's attention, and he's abandoned the motion in favor of staring at their table instead. His dad's in full uniform, his pockets bulging suspiciously with what Stiles is going to guess is illicit Halloween candy, and his dad is looking from Deucalion to Derek to Stiles in obvious interest.

Ah, crap.

"Yeah," Stiles says, heavily. "I guess Dad drew the short straw and scored Beacon City for this year's Halloween patrol. _Yay._ "


	8. Chapter 8

Derek's actually never gone on a proper date before, unless you count sneaking off after curfew to hang out at an old brewery with Paige and even that had been interrupted by supernatural shenanigans.

It's a sad statement to his life so far that having Deucalion tag along on his date (and yep, Derek's thoughts to accompany the concept are something along the lines of _is this real life?_ ) to discuss business and then his date's _father_ turning up still don't make this date other than the best date he's ever had.

"Dad," Stiles says, twisting in the seat to bodily face his father. He doesn't shuffle away from Derek's body, though. "Hey! Happy Halloween."

Sheriff Stilinski's eyebrows make a bid for escape to his hairline. "Stiles," Sheriff Stilinski says, in a calm tone. "Derek," he says next, in the same unshakeable manner. Then he quirks a glance at Deucalion. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr.—"

"Deucalion," Deucalion introduces himself, smiling widely. "You can call me Duke, if you'd like."

"Ahuh," Sheriff Stilinski says, clearly not intending to do that. He turns back to Stiles. "I thought you were at a Halloween party with Scott?"

"It's being held in my loft," Derek says.

"That's nice of you to agree to that," Sheriff Stilinski says, his expression inscrutable.

"Lydia's very convincing," Stiles says. "When she wants to be. How's your night going?"

"Fine, fine," the Sheriff says. He glances back to where Kasia's at the counter. "The usual please, Kasia, please."

"Of course, Sheriff Stilinski," Kasia says, dimples a smile at him and disappears off into the kitchen.

"The usual better be a Garden Salad and a water," Stiles mutters. He pushes at Derek's arm. "Move up so there's space for my dad?"

"Oh, I'm not staying." Sheriff Stilinski smiles. "So why are you not at the party? Is Mr. Deucalion an acquaintance, or—?"

"Well," Stiles says, "Derek and I skipped out on the party to go on our first date, and Mr. Deucalion dropped by to talk about… rhubarb."

Derek chokes and has to gulp down some of his coffee, even though it's still too hot. Stiles turns to him and beams, reaching out to pat Derek's leg.

"You okay?" Stiles asks Derek, tilting his head.

"Yeah," Derek wheezes, "yeah. I just wanted to survive long enough to date you, that's all." He squints up fearfully to see Sheriff Stilinski… looking relatively amused?

"My son finally managed to convince you to date him, huh?" Sheriff Stilinski's smile widens. "That's great. I'm happy for you."

" _Dad,_ " Stiles whines, tapping his legs up and down anxiously.

Derek frowns. "But—"

"Expecting a shovel talk?" The Sheriff waggles his eyebrows and Derek nods. "No point. You already know if you hurt Stiles that it'd be a race between Scott and me as to who could hurt you first. But I've seen you with my son, Hale, and I kinda get the feeling you'd be the one throwing yourself off Beacon Point if you hurt him." The Sheriff moves over and leans against the table, smiling _nicely_ at Derek. Which is relatively confusing because Derek's years older than Stiles.

"That's true," Derek says quietly.

"Well then," Sheriff Stilinski says. "Besides, you're the best chance I've seen yet for Stiles to have to eat his words come his first semester at college." The Sheriff grins at Stiles. "You'll be crying within a month."

When Derek looks at Stiles, Stiles is narrowing his eyes exaggeratedly, pursing his mouth and glaring at his dad like they're a Sheriff and a wayward cowboy in a Western having a shoot-off. "I still say you were just weak," Stiles tells his dad.

"We'll see," the Sheriff says and turns back in time to see Kasia bring in a cardboard carrier of two hot drinks and a brown bag of food which Derek can smell from the table is decidedly not a garden salad. "Thanks, Kasia."

"No problem, Sheriff," the waitress says, dimpling at the sheriff.

"One thing before I go," the Sheriff says and Derek freezes again, waiting to be shot in the face or something equally violent, as befits any once-a-wanted-murder-suspect trying to date the Sheriff's barely legal son. "Lydia said if I ran into you tonight that I had to check you were still wearing your costume. Now I hate to be a snitch, but—"

"Covered," Stiles says, pulling up his t-shirt to show the Robin costume beneath. Stiles' move is so fast it rucks up the costume top, displaying a thin strip of pale skin and a hint of a hair trail beneath and Derek has to dig his claws into his leg to stop himself from viscerally and visibly reacting. God, he just wants to press Stiles back in the booth and taste him all over and—Deucalion is smirking at him. _Fuck my life,_ Derek thinks sadly, not for the first time.

"Okay," the Sheriff says, thumbing over a couple of bills to Kasia and picking up his food. He smiles at Derek and Stiles. "Have a nice date night, boys. Don't stay up too late."

"We won't Dad, thank. You have a good night too," Stiles says, waving awkwardly, just moving his arm from his elbow.

Derek has to stop for a moment. Just a few seconds. Just while his brain tries to comprehend what just happened. Because literally none of that made sense. At all. Apart from the Sheriff's accurate character assessment of what Derek would do if he ever hurt Stiles.

When he turns to look at Stiles, askance, Stiles is calmly sipping his coffee.

"What," Derek says, "was _that_?"

"I'm in agreement," Deucalion says, looking out the window interestedly as the Sheriff returned to his cruiser. "I expected him to shoot you for sure. Maybe he's saving it for later?"

Derek sadly finds himself nodding along.

"Nah," Stiles says, gesturing with his cup. "Dad and I have a rule. He's fine with whoever I date as long as they're not within five years of his age." Stiles wrinkles his nose. "I think he means within five years _younger,_ but I've never tested it. I wonder if he'd be okay with someone six years _older_ than him." He glances over his cup at Deucalion and waggles his eyebrows.

"Excuse you, I happen to be—" Deucalion starts and then sags. "Oh, a joke." Deucalion glances at Derek. "You could have been in a pack of Alphas, Derek. A pack of adults. It boggles the mind that this was your voluntary choice."

"Derek's mentally younger than all of us," Stiles says, thumbing at Derek as if there might be another Derek with the mind of a child that might be lurking around.

"Shut up," Derek says, coloring. "The lego was to fix my wobbly chair."

"And it just so _happened_ to be in the formation of the Millennium Falcon?" Stiles returns.

Derek sighs and then remembers some of the other reasons he's confused. "Rhubarb? And what does your dad think he's right about?"

"Rhubarb is codeword for—" Stiles waves at Deucalion.

"You have a specific codeword for me?" Deucalion asks, straightening a little like he's taking it as a compliment. Of course he is.

"No," Stiles says. "Just for trouble."

Deucalion sags, perceptibly.

"And mom and dad had a long distance relationship while they were at college," Stiles says. "Dad's been _dying_ for me to find a boyfriend or girlfriend in time to see how I handle the same thing, just so he can prove how hard it is. I mean, Skype and email and webcams, how hard does he think long distance dating even _is_ now, huh?"

Derek warms at the idea of still dating Stiles when he's at college. He'd sort of been starting to presume (fear) that Stiles might only want to date him while he lived in Beacon Hills. "Wait," Derek says, "so if I want to date you while you're at college, I'm going to finally have to learn how to use the internet?"

Stiles looks at him sadly and reaches over to pat Derek's hand. "I'm sorry?" His tone is amused but his eyes are bright, sharp, scanning Derek's face, like he's trying to gauge Derek's feelings about a potential future for them from his expression.

Derek needs Stiles to know that this isn't something he wants to be brief or casual. This is something he really wants to make an effort with. "We can go computer shopping next Saturday? I'll need lessons, though."

"I know a good teacher," Stiles says. "As long as you can put up with rewards of a sexy nature."

"I'll find some way to cope," Derek says flatly. "As long as Danny can show me how to use a computer without accidentally setting off a world war—"

The elbow to his ribs is worth the second of Stiles flailing in his seat. Derek grins at him, all teeth, until Stiles realizes Derek's joking.

"You're not as funny as you think you are, Batwolf," Stiles mutters.

"While all this flirting is entirely entertaining," Deucalion says, his disdainful tone intimating it is anything _but,_ "I do still have a catastrophe with an immense potential casualty rate that I'd appreciate some help diverting?"

Derek pulls a wry face at Stiles and turns back to Deucalion. It's good to know that Stiles is a distraction, actually. He always has been, to a certain extent, but Derek's having to physically tense to stop himself from putting his arm around Stiles, from sliding his hand under his shirt to find that pale, warm skin again, so addictive under his fingertips.

Stiles wraps his lips around the edge of the coffee cup and Derek firmly fixes his gaze to a spot on the booth Deucalion's sat in that's fraying a hole in the material, because now he knows how that mouth feels against his with positive intent? When this is all over, Derek's going to get Stiles in his bed. Not like that. Just to kiss. A whole hour of kissing. A whole _day._

"Okay, so brief recap," Stiles says, putting his empty cup down loudly on the table. "There's a book in your old apartment which you need. Tell us why you can't go into it and get it yourself?"

"Because of this," Deucalion says and slides an object across the table.

"You need someone to hold your phone while you do it?" Derek asks, tilting his head.

"There's a video on it," Deucalion says.

Oh. Right. Yeah, Derek knew it would be something like that. Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek in what should be a trademark for a Hale, not a Stilinski, but Stiles' version of it isn't tinged with loathing. It's too _fond_ to be a Hale eye roll.

"Here," Stiles says and instead of watching the video himself and then hitting play again and passing it to Derek, he moves in so his face is close to Derek's and Derek is weirdly relieved that this hasn't been normal practice for them, because it's so hard not to turn Stiles' face to his and to kiss him. Up this close he can feel Stiles breathing and Stiles' tentatively slides an arm around Derek's back so they can move closer to see the video. Derek leans his weight into the gesture, because he _can_.

It's ridiculous that the _knowledge_ that he can feels just as good as doing it.

Stiles hits the play icon on the screen and the video begins.

Derek feels a phantom pain in his chest when Kali's face shakily fills the screen. Wherever she filmed the video is light, bright light, and her face is mostly a shadow, but Derek can make out the white of her eyes and the bright white of her teeth.

"Hello, Duke. If you've received this video it's because you've been away from Beacon Hills for a while and come back without Ennis and myself for some reason. The thing is I set up these traps everywhere we go, every base we make, and you haven't known because for so long, you've played by the rules. But I'm not naïve enough to think this will continue. The traps are threefold. Mainly so that whatever we leave behind will be safe for next time, in case we tread old ground, but also as… insurance. If Ennis and I don't make it out of somewhere alive, and you do, old man?" Kali smirks. "Let's just say you're going to find it _very_ difficult to get back in. Nigh on impossible. See, I'm not an idiot, Deucalion. I know you're going to screw us over at some point. I said the trap is threefold, and here's the third: Consider this is a last _fuck you_ from beyond the grave." Kali bares her fangs over the camera in a ghoulish smile and then the video goes black.

"I used our base after Ennis' death successfully," Deucalion says as they stare in unison at the dark screen, "but that must have had something to do with Kali's presence at the time. I've tried to get inside the penthouse, but it's…" He wrinkles his nose. "It's quite a puzzle. One that I cannot solve alone. I was hoping maybe you'd seen something like it, in your time."

"Something like _what_?" Derek asks.

Deucalion smiles coldly. "I'm afraid it rather has to be seen to be believed."

Stiles' huff is loud next to Derek and Derek empathizes, thoroughly. "How did I know he was going to say something like that?"


	9. Chapter 9

"I will never mock you for your choice in vehicular transportation again," Stiles says earnestly. He's being absolutely serious about that, but Derek snorts and throws him a sideglance. Okay, so maybe when they got to Derek's car, Stiles made a comment about how many soccer balls Derek could fit in the back and the trunk, in a mocking reference to how it's definitely a soccer mom car, but Stiles had just been trying to be _lewd._ Balls. _So many balls, Derek._

Stiles wanted to take his Jeep back to Beacon Hills, but Derek glared at him and Stiles capitulated. "Is dating you gonna be like this all the time?" Stiles asked plaintively when said glaring occurred. "Because I get told what to do by my dad and school _more_ than enough."

"Putting aside the fact that you never listen to what your dad or school tell you to do… _Pack_ business won't change. I'm the muscle. You're the—" Derek choked at that point, failing to think of something flattering.

Stiles sighed, "The brains, the beauty, the staggering wit?" while Derek looked constipated and stiffly told Stiles to get in the car. No, Stiles, the _passenger_ side.

And it wasn't even the _good_ kind of stiffly that Stiles has gotten very spandex-ly close to.

Ugh, Derek's a spoilsport. And considering how much Stiles _hates_ being told what to do, it's probably really weird that he wants to be with someone who's so very good at doing it.

Stiles drums his fingers on his knees. He can never sit still. Maybe Deucalion has the right idea with his choice of transportation…

Except, _no._ No one looks good on a neon-orange Vespa. _No one._ Deucalion's wearing a helmet, even though Stiles is sure that a werewolf in a car accident probably comes out of it quite well. He snorts to himself, imagining Deucalion as Cali's next poster boy for road safety.

Derek carefully drives a distance behind Deucalion, because he's no fun. If they'd been in Stiles' Jeep, Stiles would have been riding Deucalion's slipstream like a boss. Probably why Derek had insisted he drove.

Also because he knows Stiles and knows that at the end of the night Stiles would probably try and skip out on helping clean up the loft, seeing as his Jeep would be back in Beacon Hills and all…

Yeah, Stiles isn't going to deny that one. Now, Derek will have to drive him back to pick up Roscoe and Scott will puppy-dog eye him into helping, even though the party had been practically all Scott's idea, and—

Stiles looks across at Derek, eyes trained on Deucalion's ridiculously orange scooter, hands firmly on the steering wheel at ten and two o'clock. Derek has very nice hands. Stiles has only had them touch a little of his bare skin and it had felt _amazing._ Stiles is thorough when he crushes. He pictures the person of his dreams in all the positions, in all the scenarios, and reality so far has been relatively tame in comparison to the mental wishlist Stiles has focused on Derek. Reality so far has also blown Stiles' imagination out into orbit.

The way Derek had sounded so _desperate_ confessing that Stiles was the last person he'd kissed for a year—was the only person he'd _wanted_ to kiss all year—And Derek hadn't _protested_ Stiles telling his dad they were on a date, albeit a really sucky one, because who else in the world would have their first, long-awaited date chaperoned by an ex-demon wolf?

Well. Derek and Stiles were never a normal couple on paper – why would reality be any different?

Anyway, the party might have been mostly Scott's idea, but Stiles is thoroughly glad now that it did happen. Because if it hadn't, just how long would he and Derek silently pined for one another?

Stiles taps his feet along with his fingers, until Derek shoots him a look which clearly says _do you have to_? He sighs and pokes his fingers forwards towards the road. If he squints, it looks like he's cutting Deucalion's head off with just his index finger.

The car is oddly silent. Normally Stiles would be babbling a mile a minute about whatever strikes his mood, mostly to distract him from the eternal soundtrack of his mind: that Derek would never in his right mind want him.

Ha, that should have been his first clue right there – because when are _any_ of them _ever_ in their right minds?

Sometimes Stiles would just spend a whole drive with Derek (which happens a lot: their supernatural kind of lifestyle continually throws them together, and Stiles used to think it was to hurt him, or because life has a sense of humor, but now he's kinda wondering whether life's just bored and likes to randomly match-make people?) flirting with him, trying to see whether it could get any kind of a rise out of Derek (his main objective used to be a smile, although he never would have objected to _another_ kind of rise.)

But now he knows how Derek feels – or at least, feels at the _moment_ – or maybe it's some kind of spell? Or a joke, or maybe Derek's possessed again, or—

_Stop it, Stiles. He likes you. He actually seems to enjoy kissing you. He didn't back flip out the diner window when you told your dad you were on a date. Just go with this. And if in the morning it all turns out to have been a dream? It's a hell of a good dream so far._

Stiles glances down at his fingers, because it's an impulse that never goes away, it's a tic he's going to have for the rest of his life. He spreads them out on his knees and counts to ten, letting out a breath when he runs out of fingers when he gets to _ten._ On that exhale, Derek's hand moves over and slides over his.

The weight of it sends a pleasant buzz of friction down Stiles' arms and he can feel warmth in his cheeks, in his stomach. "Still?" Derek asks, not needing to elaborate. His eyes are still fixed on following Deucalion.

"Yeah," Stiles says, tersely.

"Me too," Derek says. Stiles' head whips over to stare at his profile. "I never really told you, I guess. But when—Two years ago. Mexico. When Kate—"

It's understandable that Derek can't reach instant coherency on this topic. "When she tortured you," Stiles says, proud that his voice only wobbles a little. Derek's jaw is tense and his nod is small, but enough for Stiles to see the confirmation.

"For most of the time, I guess my brain wanted it to be a dream," Derek says, "and I remembered you telling me about the fingers thing, and so—"

"That became your anchor to reality?" Stiles looks down at Derek's hand on top of his and smiles without an inch of sarcasm.

"You," Derek says, his voice sounding thick. He's still staring stoically ahead, but then he glances to the side, and his expression looks weirdly soft. Vulnerable.

Stiles has seen that expression before. It's usually direct his way during the aftermath of battle and they're all lying on the floor, bleeding out and breathing hard but _alive,_ and Derek sometimes just looks over at Stiles like he has to check, like he has to see if they made it, and Stiles had always assumed it was a yardstick for him: if the human survived, chances are everyone else did too. Now, though, he's starting to realize there might be a whole other reason why Derek's eyes look for him first when any sort of chaos has concluded and it's an _amazing_ thought.

Derek's eyes turn back to the road before Stiles can school his expression into something other than 'shocked stupid', and Stiles thinks that's it, that's the moment over, and then Derek quietly adds, " _You_ became my anchor."

"To reality?" Stiles says, voice definitely shaky this time.

Derek's staring out at the road and he shakes his head. Just a little. Just enough.

Stiles became his anchor, all right. His anchor to  _humanity._

Stiles' free hand finds its way over and he makes a sandwich of his hands around Derek's right hand, thumb smoothing over the skin for a brief moment before Stiles sees a turning coming up, and he reluctantly lets go so that Derek can use the stick shift. His throat feels thicker than usual, like he's just woken up after sleeping with his mouth open all night, and he stares down at his hands, not counting fingers, just remembering the weight of Derek's hand in his.

He wants to speak, but his feelings are too big for his mouth, too unwieldy for his tongue. He coughs to clear some of the happy bewilderment of his mind, which has gone from _he thought I was a hot Robin and kissed me_ to _I was his anchor in Mexico? That was two years ago!_

Normally Stiles can rely on some of the random trivia he's stockpiled into his head on random research sprees, but his brain is failing him. After tapping in another update to the pack (attaching a picture of Deucalion's orange scooter, obviously, because Stiles cannot be the only one laughing about that right now) he relies on the one conversation topic he _can_ handle.

"You know we're literally walking into a trap, right?" Stiles says, gesturing at Deucalion as he makes the turning into Beacon Hills.

Derek huffs a little. "We're driving right now."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"We'll keep an eye on him," Derek says. "And as soon as he does anything untoward, we'll—"

"Call the pack on him and wait half an hour for them to catch up?" Stiles says.

Derek wrinkles his nose. "I'm sure we'll be fine," he says. "I need to count my fingers when I'm dreaming to be able to count on both hands the number of times it's been down to just us two to save the day, anyway."

"Oh, so I get credit now," Stiles says, pretending to be grumpy and outraged about it. "For years it's been _oh, I'm Derek Hale, I saved the day single-clawedly_ —"

"I don't sound like that. It's a terrible impression."

"Says the man with the second-worst Batman impression in Beacon County."

"Hey—Hmm. My level of outrage depends on who's the worst."

"Scott."

"I'm mollified. Slightly."

" _Mollified,_ " Stiles repeats, because he always echoes Derek's odd vocabulary choices. While praising Scott for it, obviously. Stiles has double standards and he doesn't _care._

"Mollified. To appease the anger or anxiety of someone. Also to reduce the severity of. Synonyms include appease, placate, pacify—"

"Oh, my god," Stiles says. "Is this a—a werewolf thing? To fixate on the SAT vocab section?"

"Affirmative. Agreement, acquiescence, assent—"

"Yeah, yeah."

" _Exactly,_ " Derek says, quirking a smirk at him that says he's pleased with himself. Stiles rolls his eyes but grins, because Derek is a goober, but he's _his_ goober, apparently. Wow. _Such_ wow. _Forever_ wow. Also it's apparently good that Derek apparently has such an amazing vocabulary because Stiles might be stuck on wow for a good amount of time.

Especially when Derek pulls the car up to the right apartment block and takes Stiles' hand in his on the approach, intertwining his fingers in Stiles automatically and walking beside him, matching pace up to the front door as Deucalion leans his Vespa against a wall and just _leaves_ it there without even locking it.

Deucalion probably has a valid unspoken point – no one sane would steal that scooter in a million years.

Then again, Deucalion's obviously not spent enough time in Beacon Hills, because sanity is universally debatable.

"I didn't know the décor here was so tacky when we moved in," Deucalion says, elbowing Stiles aside to press the elevator button to get them to the top floor. Stiles doesn't blame him so much – after being blind for so long, it must still feel amazing to be able to do things for himself, even just small things like reading the right number on an elevator key pad. "Obviously I would have preferred somewhere classier."

"It's Beacon Hills," Stiles says. "Classiness isn't exactly abundant."

Stiles would have felt better if Deucalion hadn't glanced at him in an askance manner and muttered, "Obviously" while eyeballing Stiles' clothes. Stiles pulls at his shirt self-consciously. If his clothes look odd, it's only because he's hiding a sidekick costume underneath it, that's all.

The key pad makes a beeping sound and Deucalion leans forward to slide a keycard into a slot that Stiles hadn't noticed. As soon as he does so the doors slide open to reveal a hallway much like the one that used to lead to the Argent apartment, except on this hallway there's only one door.

"The penthouse suite, gentleman," Deucalion says, stepping out of the elevator. Stiles knows the collective pack's luck with elevators is pretty low so he follows Deucalion sharpish, tugging Derek with him onto the more solid floor of the hallway, because that luck is low. Besides, Stiles has probably seen the _Final Destination_ movies more times than he's obviously comfortable with.

"So does the keycard not work on the door too?" Derek asks, gesturing at the plain white door situated in the middle of the beige wall.

"It does," Deucalion says. "Unfortunately getting into the apartment itself is… not quite as easy as it appears to be."

Derek frowns at Deucalion enough for both of them.

Deucalion sighs. "I know my word wouldn't be good enough for you, so I'll show you. Stay close."

Stiles' eyes flicker up and down the hallway. There's stillness in the air up here, but maybe that's just stuffiness from the penthouse being shut up for so long. He's not quite sure what to expect from the penthouse apartment that has to be behind the door. What did the modern crazy werewolf supervillain lair look like, anyway? Kate's torture chamber in Mexico had been pretty… creepy. Stiles grabs Derek's hand tighter and Derek shoots him an indulgent glance and Stiles immediately lets go, because he's a tough guy, damnit, he doesn't need his date (okay, his brain is still throwing confetti and turning cartwheels on that one) to hold his hand.

Only Deucalion slides the keycard into the slot and the door opens and Stiles grabs at Derek's hand again, securely wrapping their fingers together again, because the hallway that the open door reveals is, well… _creepy._

It's just gotta be a bog-standard ingredient of all supervillain lairs everywhere. Creepy-ass creepiness ahoy, as far as the eye can see.

It's just a corridor. No windows or doors along the sides. Electric lights run at intervals across the ceiling. The floors and walls and ceiling are covered in immaculate white tiles which reflect the light, pooling white light towards them, brightening the beige carpet underneath their feet.

Stiles swallows. At the end of the corridor is a white door with a handle, no lock in sight. He doesn't know _why_ he's so scared of a corridor, but he is.

Maybe this is all the help Deucalion needs. Maybe he's just scared and came to find Derek so someone could hold his hand while he walked down one, itty bitty hallway? Well sucks to Deucalion if he did, because _Stiles_ has Derek's hand right now and he's not letting go. Nope.

"So what does it do?" Stiles says, shifting his weight onto his toes, bouncing and peering down the scary white corridor. "Are there deadly laser beams? Do circular saws come out of the wall? Does a wireframe come down and egg slice you if you step on the wrong tiles?"

"I'm cutting off your Netflix subscription," Derek murmurs, "especially to the horror section."

Stiles pulls a face at Derek which is totally wasted, because Derek's staring down the corridor, looking perplexed.

"It's actually harmless, as far as I can tell," Deucalion says, shrugging. He looks worried, though. "Come on in, I'll show you." At Stiles' skeptical expression, Deucalion sighs loudly. "I'll go first."

Stiles looks to Derek for confirmation and Derek nods, once. Okay. They're gonna do this.

Deucalion, as good as his word, steps into the hallway first. Stiles and Derek exchange a long look, squeeze their hands together at the same time, and then Stiles takes a deep breath and steps through the door.

Deucalion laughs as the door closes behind them with a loud crash. Derek curses under his breath and immediately turns around, trying to open it – and it does open. Easily. Derek's obviously expecting a battle, though, and the door smashes into the side of the white wall.

"Don't worry," Deucalion says. "You can get out. You can _always_ get out. It's… getting anywhere else that's the problem."

Stiles exchanges a worried look with Derek, because what the _hell_?

"Follow me," Deucalion says. "Let me show you."

Frowning, Stiles waits for Derek to nod before they start walking behind Deucalion. The hallway is wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast and Stiles counts his paces, trying to measure the length of the hallway, because counting is just one of the strategies his mom taught him to manage his ADHD. _Count the number of tiles, Stiles. Count how many steps it is from one door to another. That's my boy. That's my good boy._

"So we get to this door," Deucalion says as he approaches the white door on the farthest side of the hallway, "and it opens just fine. No keycard required." Deucalion reaches forward slowly and opens the door –

–to reveal another hallway behind it identical to the one they're in.

Stiles blinks. _What the fuck?_

A glance at Derek says clearly that Derek's not come across anything like this before.

"Wait," Deucalion says, "it gets better."

Stiles frowns, because how much better can things get? He's presuming better means worse, anyway, because villains are topsy-turvy in everything, including their definition of what words mean.

They walk faster to the next door, but Stiles counts his steps again. Forty paces. Okay. Two hallways pointing in the right direction… Considering the length of the building, there can probably only be one more.

Deucalion opens the door to another identical hallway.

And then another one.

They're on hallway number six when Stiles realizes they technically should be standing in mid-air right about now. When he looks up to gauge Derek's reaction, Derek looks pale.

"This is impossible," Derek says. "Physically impossible. How far does it go?"

Deucalion shrugs elegantly. "I don't know. I've made several expeditions and all have come up badly. I made it to hallway three hundred and twelve in my last attempt before I had to return in fear of being trapped or starving to death."

"It'd be a bitch if it ended at hallway three hundred and thirteen," Stiles says. Normally he'd smirk but he doesn't feel like it. This place is genuinely creepy.

"Yes," Deucalion says. "Especially as I turned back thinking that I would have to traverse all three hundred plus hallways again. I could have made it much further."

"Wait," Derek says, "what do you mean _thinking_?"

"Aw, that's exactly the word I would have picked up on too," Stiles says, making sure Deucalion know he means it meanly. Deucalion just shakes his head ruefully.

"Lead the way back and I'll show you," Deucalion says, gesturing at the white door behind them.

Derek frowns but does what Deucalion says, although he pushes Stiles behind him and he lets go of Stiles' hand. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets because they feel naked and lonely without a Derek attached to them. Derek slowly opens the door, left hand tensed and ready to form claws if Deucalion's engineered something to sneak up behind them and attack –

– and the door opens on the original hallway. Stiles peers around Derek's shoulder and then together they go through the door and they find themselves back where they started. The elevator downstairs sits in front of them, reflecting back their shocked expressions. Deucalion exits the hallway and the door crashes shut behind him.

It's like Stiles can breathe normally again. He hadn't realized his breathing had gotten tighter, more wired, more keyed-up in that weird white hallway until now he's out and free from the oppressive weight of it.

"So," Deucalion says, leaning against the wall and raising both eyebrows, "do you see why I'm having a little bit of trouble getting into my old apartment?"

Stiles shuffles closer to Derek, stares at the innocuous door into the impossible hallway, and shivers.


	10. Chapter 10

Derek's not a quitter, not _ever_ , but after an actual hour of prodding and poking and experimenting in the apparently infinite hallway, he's leaning towards making a shift in his character to accommodate it in his future. He's kind of… bored.

If it wasn't for watching how animated Stiles got over the hallway and its potential, Derek would at least have already called for back-up.

They've discovered they can smash a door and leave two of the hallway iterations open at once, but if they smash the next door, the one behind automatically fixes itself and slams shut. Stiles wondered whether a manipulation of dimension of space meant a manipulation of dimension of time and was creepily proven right – being inside the hallway somehow runs at a tenth of the speed of time outside. So when Derek spent what _he_ thought was an hour running through hallway after hallway to disprove Stiles' "what if it's hallway 313" theory, and when he came back out into the beige hallway after hitting hallway 405, apparently only ten minutes had passed.

They've tried putting a rope through the hallways. Stiles fetched his football from Derek's car, and put that in the hallway and closed the door, but it was still there when they opened the door. However, when they put it in a hallway and went through to the next one, the football disappeared for good, which panicked Derek a little. Stiles wanted to try leaving a person in the hallway behind, but Deucalion wouldn't agree to it, scared he'd be disappeared too.

They eventually managed to get a peeved sounding Deaton on the phone, but his audible annoyance might have been from the sound in the background – it sounded like his house was being inundated by trick-or-treaters. Deaton said it had to be magic, there was most likely a phrase or less likely a secret action that would dissolve the illusion, and when pressed, he guessed that it was a spatio-temporal hyperlink.

Derek had ended _that_ phonecall optimistically and Deucalion had perked up, until Stiles ruined both of their hope by revealing _spatio-temporal hyperlink_ is a _Doctor Who_ reference and Deaton just hadn't wanted to say "magic door."

They then spent half an hour shouting random phrases at the door and hoping for the best. Deucalion stabbed the door in the hopes that Kali's favorite act of violence might be her version of _open sesame._

Then Derek tentatively voices that maybe it's an action, like knocking on the door seven times, or performing a martial arts move she was familiar with?

Stiles slumps against the wall, frowning. "It's got to be something relatively easy," Stiles says, rubbing at his forehead. "Something easy enough for Kali to do, anyway."

Deucalion hums under his breath. "That's a decent character assassination, actually. Although isn't that what your last little girlfriend did? Assassinated characters?"

Stiles plaintively asks Derek, "Can I stab him? Just a little bit? Just through the heart?" before Derek can even do anything to elucidate the way his insides shrivel up at Deucalion's reference to Jennifer Blake. So much of his time with her is a blur is in his head and he doesn't know if it was magic that she cast on him or just his own brain, erasing some of the damage she did to him as a self-preservation tactic.

" _He,_ " Derek decides, "can go get us some coffee if he wants us to keep helping?"

"For all the good you're doing," Deucalion sniffs, but heads toward the elevators. "I know where the couple on the fourth floor keep their spare key. They're never in. I'm sure they can spare a few teaspoons of coffee."

"And sugar," Stiles calls after him, "make sure you steal some sugar too."

Derek stares at Stiles, appalled that he's enabling Deucalion's thievery.

"What?" Stiles says, eyeballing Derek back. He looks tired, actually. Like he should be in bed. Derek's bed, preferably. "Are you honestly going to say you're sweet enough for me that I don't need sugar? I've got a lot of words for you in my head, but sweet's not really one of them."

"I _can_ be sweet," Derek mutters, surly with it, because he can _totally_ be sweet. Yeah. If Stiles wants sweet, he can be the fucking sweetest guy in all of Beacon County.

"Hey," Stiles says, and moves over to Derek, looping his arms loosely around Derek's hips and smiling at him lopsidedly because he's spent too much time with Scott and Scott's uneven face, "sweet has _never_ been what I'm after. I've got too many jagged edges for _sweet_ to be able to handle me."

"So you want me for my super healing? Because I can survive being stabbed by your jagged edges?"

Stiles purses his lips for a moment and his fingers tighten in the material of Derek's jacket. "Maybe," he says, quietly. "Or maybe it's just because I know what it's like to push people continually away, so when someone manages to get past all that—it can be hard to let go."

Derek stares across at Stiles. The moment feels as charged as it did on the balcony, back at the party, which seems almost like another lifetime ago – except this time, the energy's different. Maybe on the balcony it had been entirely unresolved sexual tension, the potential of something between them like a charge across the air. Now it's like that charge has been ignited a little and some of the desperation has been burned away, stripping some of the self-doubt and self-loathing along with it. A disconnected sense of unreality is seeping into its place and Derek's struck by a need to touch Stiles. To see if he's real.

He's had that urge before, he's just rarely before given into it. Except now, he thinks he's allowed to, which is amazing. Which is _everything._ When Derek reaches up to brush Stiles' hair back from his forehead, Stiles' whole body moves into the touch, like he's desperate for it. Like he needs it. Christ, _how_ had Derek completely missed the fact that there had been more than just a chance Stiles could like him back?

"I'm sorry," Derek hears himself saying, before he's really even fully decided to say it.

Stiles startles a short laugh. His breath is warm on Derek's face. "What for?"

Derek thinks about it. What Stiles deserves from him. What Stiles _deserved_ from him and didn't get. Stiles deserves respect and Derek trying his best, because Derek fears even his best is less than Stiles is actually worth.

He deserved better than Derek being a coward and spilling his pathetic pining secret while hiding behind a shitty forty-dollar costume. At least Derek can make some effort now to try and put it into words without Deucalion overhearing. Because if there's one thing Derek's learned (besides ensuring bad guys don't get too much information, especially about things and people you care about) is that you don't always _get_ the time to say things to the people you love, and—

And—

Yeah, now's not the time for that at all. Derek's going to do things _right_ with Stiles. As right as he can. And telling someone that you love them on a first date that's been interrupted by a psychotic ex-demon wolf? Yeah, probably not right.

Even though Derek knows better than most that you _don't_ always get the time to say things to people.

Still, even if love (and that's got to be what it means, why Derek's not been able to sleep properly for months, tossing and turning over that kiss, replaying it over and over in his mind, letting daydreams fill his waking hours of instead of pushing Stiles away, pulling him closer, and instead of staring at him silently when he can get away with it, _telling_ Stiles the things he's thinking, because Stiles would be interested, he's _always_ interested in Derek, even when a hundred other people would have run away) is firmly off the conversation menu, there still are a few things Derek's allowed to say.

"I shouldn't have said anything in a scenario which made it easy for me to pass it off as a joke. I should have walked away. Done it properly. To your face, no mask."

Stiles shrugs and stares at Derek like… Like he's something special. Derek resists the urge to count his fingers. He's not dreaming. And if he is, he almost doesn't care. "I should have done the same," Stiles says. His fingers tighten more on Derek's hips. "But seems like every time I dare to hope for something nowadays—" Stiles shrugs uselessly, but he doesn't have to finish the sentence.

Derek understands. Oh, Derek understands. "My brain thinks you're probably going to die or go evil any time soon, so—"

Stiles smiles, but this smile is almost shy, and Derek is winded, because he hadn't realized Stiles even _had_ so many different smiles. "Well you're in luck, Mr. Hale," Stiles says, his voice low, careful, and he lifts up his fingers to tangle in the belt loops of Derek's jeans, tugging Derek closer until Stiles' voice is a warm breath against his cheeks, "because I think I've already _done_ both."

Derek's stomach goes cold, because he forgot about that, too busy bundling Cora up and trying to take her away, keep her safe, while a bunch of teenagers made a decision of impossible magnitude. _The same decision you made,_ Derek's brain reminds him. _But I was old enough to know the consequences. And if I'd died, maybe it would have just been what I deserved anyway._

"That wasn't supposed to make you sad," Stiles says, looking at Derek like he's worried that Derek might do stupid like chew a handful of wolfsbane petals right now. "You were supposed to feel relieved."

"Relieved that you _died_?"

"Yeah. Okay. Point taken. I don't hear my own voice sometimes before I speak."

" _Sometimes_?" Derek repeats, to be a jerk because he can. He thinks it's important to reaffirm to Stiles that he's not going to change just because he has the often insane need to know what Stiles' skin feels like beneath his fingers.

Stiles takes both his hands off Derek's waist, holding them palms forward, fingers spread out, and he wrinkles his nose. "I'd got the impression earlier you wanted to date me, but I guess I was wrong."

Derek has a choice here: read it as the teasing it obviously is, or let the darkness lurking in his brain run rampant and believe that Stiles' attachment to him is light, a joke, impossible. He smirks and in one smooth movement takes Stiles by the shoulders and spins him, turning him around and pushing him into the wall.

"You talk some real shit, Stilinski," Derek says, widening his smirk to full-on shit-eating.

Stiles' instant grin is almost blinding. "At least I manage full sentences, _Hale._ "

Something unknots in Derek's stomach. Stiles is always going to give him back as good as he gets it. "Guess I'm not doing my job right as your date, then, if you're not at the speechless part of the evening yet."

Stiles' gaze is heated as he says, matching Derek's smirk. "Nope. Guess you'd better get on that, then."

"You think so?"

"I'd _like_ to think so. But do you really think you have it in you?"

Derek wraps one of his hands possessively around the back of Stiles' neck. "Maybe later," he says and the _sound_ that comes from Stiles, it's like he's been _shot_ and then Stiles is moving, a blur, a desperation, as he lunges forwards into a kiss Derek eagerly meets and returns.

_Time is probably of some essence_ , Derek thinks, but that's about the only coherent sentence his brain manages, because kissing Stiles should come with a hazard warning. Derek's burning up with the need for this kiss to keep going; Derek has no control of his hands, and it's only when his fingers come into contact with the belt of the Robin costume that Derek realizes he's been tugging at Stiles' t-shirt, trying to get back to the feeling of Stiles' warm skin beneath his fingertips again. Mostly he only realizes because of the groan of frustration he makes. Stiles takes advantage of Derek pulling his mouth away to make that sound and he laughs, his arms clinging around Derek like he's holding himself up by holding onto him, and then Stiles presses a line of kisses from the corner of Derek's mouth to his jawline. Derek moves one of his frustrated, spandex-encountering hands up to Stiles' jawline, so he can line them up to be kissing again, and the way Stiles kisses him back – earnest, enticing, forever addicting – _distracting_ –

It's no real surprise that Derek's distracted, that Derek lets Stiles grab him and turn them so he can push _Derek_ against the nearest surface, and that's perfect, because they're equals. People would never assume so from the outside, but Stiles can always push back and he can keep up with Derek like no one else ever has, like no one else ever _will_. Stiles shoves with a grin and Derek's back collides with the door to the impossible hallway and he doesn't even care that pain lances across his back from being indelicately shoved into the handle; he doesn't care about anything except that Stiles needs to keep kissing him and never stop.

"Your fucking _mouth,_ " Stiles murmurs, pulling away with a fractured gasp, like Derek's stealing all of his air. "Freaking supernatural, it has to be."

"If I'm supernatural, so are you," Derek says, burying his face in the corner between Stiles' neck and shoulder, nosing along the clothed skin and wishing there was nothing but skin and air between them.

"100% human here, bucko," Stiles manages before bowing his head and chasing Derek's mouth, nudging his face upwards again so he can push into Derek's mouth, claim his lips for his own. Stiles drags his tongue against Derek's lower lip and he almost wants to cry because it's ridiculous, he's so close to coming apart, just from _kissing._

Except it's not the kissing pulling him apart from the inside out. It's Stiles. But oh, how has Derek survived without this in his life? He wasn't living. He _hasn't_ been living for so, so long. The world is a burst of light and color and possibility right now and all of that potential is focused on this space between their bodies, where their mouths drag against each other, again and again and again.

"I want—" Derek starts and can't finish it – there's too much blood pumping through his body, going south _fast_ and leaving him dizzy and panting underneath Stiles' hands. "I want—"

Stiles pulls back and his eyes are glittering, almost feral. "Yeah? What do you want?"

"I—" Derek starts and he's not sure what his next words are even going to be, only that they're important because it's about Stiles and forever and _need_ and—why is Stiles coughing? That's not a good thing, not at all, especially when Stiles' mouth isn't even open, his mouth is pushing into a firm line, and that's not a good thing, that means less kissing, which Derek is _firmly_ against right now and—

"That's Deucalion coughing, isn't it?" Derek voices as soon as his brain kicks in.

"Yep," Stiles says in a slightly strained tone, hilariously high pitched.

"To be fair," Deucalion says in an impressively calm voice, even though as Derek peeks around Stiles he notices that Deucalion looks like he's swallowed a bucket of flies, "it's not a solution I would have come up with, or been conducive to inspiring with my presence."

Derek blinks at Deucalion, not understanding.

"Oh. The _kissing_!" Stiles punches Derek in the arm, beaming at him. " _Kissing_ was the cue for the spell to stop. Something only Kali would do. Kali _and_ Ennis." Stiles gestures excitedly and Derek turns to follow the direction of Stiles' hand gestures.

The door is open and behind it, instead of that creepy white hallway, Derek can see oak flooring and the edges of a leather red armchair. It looks kinda cozy for a supervillain's lair, but what does Derek know – his lairs were more for the _good_ guys and he had a burned down house, a wrecked train car and a massive, hole-ridden loft.

"Ah," Derek says. "Because the spell was designed to be a failsafe against you killing either of them."

"Oops," Deucalion says, peering past them into the room. "Well, it's not like I have my own pet banshee and can _un_ dead even one of the hundreds I've killed, so at least all's well that ends well?"

"Right," Stiles says, "if that's the case, then why aren't you leading the way?" Stiles steps away from the partially open door, gesturing for Deucalion to take the lead, and he pulls one of the mugs of coffee from Deucalion's hands, sniffing at it and putting it down on the carpet, scowling at it. Not strong enough, probably.

"Well," Deucalion says and puts the other two mugs of coffee on the floor, rubbing his nose distractedly as he peers in through the door, "there's always the fact that every time we used to leave a base, we loaded it up with booby traps so no one could use anything we left behind."

"Tell me that you know how to evade those booby traps," Derek says flatly, already knowing what the answer is going to be.

"I was _blind_ when I lived here _,_ " Deucalion says. "Even if they _showed_ me how to evade them, how was I going to see the process?"

Derek rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "Of _course_ ," he sighs, exchanging a rueful look with Stiles.


	11. Chapter 11

Derek's still mentally facepalming when Stiles has the brainwave to keep them both safe. After struggling to deal with Scott taking the lead when it comes to amazing and intricately plotted plans (and Stiles _was_ sad for the longest time, until he realized that for years Stiles only _ever_ planned the first half of something and never thought about the consequences — and interestingly, it seems Derek and he might even have that impulse in common) it feels good to be the man with a plan.

Even though he can never really predict what Deucalion might do, because it turns out that saving Deucalion from dire, unrelenting evil just sent him on a looping path of ambiguous morality instead, and guessing what he's going to do next does not come with blinding accuracy.

So really, Stiles has just come up with, yet again, another of his half-formed plans again.

Well, it's better than nothing. And much better than Derek just throwing himself into the room. Especially when they know Deucalion's in a world-saving mood... but know perfectly well that he's not beyond throwing _them_ under the bus in the name of "the greater good."

"Okay," Stiles says, "go get your book, then." He makes a shooing gesture towards the door. "We'll wait here."

Deucalion actually looks shocked, which pleases Stiles. Stiles risks a glance at Derek. Derek's ducking his head, working hard to smother a grin.

"But there's thousands of people at risk," Deucalion hisses.

Stiles shrugs. "All the more reason for you to take care in there."

Deucalion's slack mouth is an amusing sight and he looks to Derek for a second opinion, but Derek just gestures at the door.

"If you wanted cuddles and hand-holding, you should have asked for Scott," Stiles says.

Deucalion exhales, shaking his head and peering into the apartment with a narrowed expression. "Can I at least count on you having my back should I fall foul of the traps?"

Derek nods tersely, the traitor; Stiles would have let him stew in his terror a little while longer.

Apparently Deucalion's not kidding about the traps, either. It's like a lot of awesome B-movies all in one place. Deucalion steels himself, squares his shoulders and steps into the apartment and immediately has to jump to one side as a literal _ax_  thunders out of the roof and swings towards him, disconnecting and smashing hard into the wooden floor, glinting dangerously at them as it settled into the flooring.

"What the _fuck,_ " Stiles breathes, stepping closer to the door. Derek puts out a hand, keeping him from getting any closer, apparently worried that Stiles is going to leap in and put himself in danger.

Well. It's not like Stiles doesn't have _previous_ on that sort of thing.

"That one had a buzz before it went off," Derek murmurs, eyes trained on Deucalion as he enters further into the apartment. "High-frequency."

"So only werewolves can hear it," Stiles realizes. "Awesome. _Wait._ "

"For what?"

"I can't even tell if I'm being sarcastic or not by saying it's awesome."

"You're an idiot," Derek says, but it sounds like _I like you_ so Stiles just grins and watches Deucalion get struck in the gut by an arrow that looks like it's launched out of the fireplace.

Deucalion turns back to glare at them. Probably because Stiles is laughing. Deucalion yanks out the arrow and throws it outside.

"No buzz on that one?" Stiles asks.

"No buzz for that one," Derek confirms.

"You know, it's funny that he's not using things around him to test for traps," Stiles says. "We could have used my football, except someone disappeared it."

"It's actually in here," Deucalion says, taking a step to the left which makes him disappear from sight, because they can only see so far from the doorway.

"Oh," Stiles says. "I was hoping we could have disappeared _you_ at some point in the hallway. That's disappointing."

There's a large crash, a sound of bubbling liquid and a sound of Deucalion backflipping away from whatever's going on (Stiles has seen so much unnecessary back flips over the last two years of his life that he can identify them by sound; that's definitely a double backwards flip. And Deucalion did _not_ stick the landing.)

"Does he _ever_ shut up?" Deucalion calls through.

"Just talking to Derek?" Stiles yells. "That's discourteous."

"I haven't yet found a situation where he's quiet," Derek says, frowning thoughtfully. "I am looking forward to trying to find one, though. So far I've mentally pencilled at least fourteen separate possibilities. And at least four of them are possibly illegal in this state."

"We need to compare lists later," Stiles says, trying desperately to sound casual because maybe Derek's actually hinting about sex and the idea of that— with _Derek_ —

"Oh, god. Please shut up. _Please_." Deucalion's distress is amusing.

"He did say please," Stiles says, trying to peer around the door. Derek's arm holds him back and Stiles pulls a face which clearly says _fun ruiner_ and Derek's expression in return clearly says _I don't care_ and it's a familiar exchange in a situation like this, but it's the first time Stiles has realized the _I don't care_ is _I don't care if you miss out on some fun as long as you're safe_ and heat pools in the bottom of his stomach and his chest feels almost _fizzy_ with feeling.

"I'm not sure one moment of politeness makes up for years of being a douchebag," Derek says. "What do you think?"

"You both think you're so hilarious," Deucalion grunts, followed by the sound of something falling from the ceiling, crashing hard to the ground. "That was nearly my _feet._ "

"Oh no, not your _feet_ ," Stiles deadpans.

"You two are giant _dicks,_ " Deucalion seethes, "I hope you end up really happy together. Preferably in a pit of acid somewhere."

"Does he sound cross to you?" Derek tilts his head. "I think I'm imagining things."

"I think I heard him complimenting us," Stiles says. "Wishing us a lifetime of happiness. And then something about our giant dicks."

Derek's slow smirk is wicked and his eyes are shining and fuck, Stiles is so gone on this guy it's _ridiculous._

"As fun as it is hearing your delusions," Deucalion says, his voice sounding a little thinner, "I do believe we have a problem."

"Realizing that you're ugly isn't a problem, Duke. It's just one step closer to a healthier, more realistic way of living," Stiles says.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" Deucalion asks.

"Unless the good news is you've decided to go to Russia and never surface again..." Stiles trails off, winking at Derek, who just gives him a flat, unimpressed expression. Ah, even a (mutual! fuck, yeah) crush isn't going to change Derek. And that's a good thing. Stiles hates it when people start dating and immediately turn into constant gushing idiots. They keep losing good lacrosse players to love, it's hella irritating.

"The good news is I have the book," Deucalion says.

"The bad news?" Derek says, before Stiles can hurl more (deserved) sarcasm his way. Stiles shrugs all the way to his eyebrows. Derek probably has the right idea.

"This latest trap appears to have surrounded me in mountain ash," Deucalion says.

"No," Derek says, immediately.

"I'm not _lying,_ " Deucalion immediately exclaims.

"I wasn't talking to you," Derek says, turning fully into Stiles' personal space and glaring at him.

"It wasn't a massive leap of logic to think you were," Deucalion says, the sulking strong in his tone. Stiles has long assumed that super-sulking is just another one of the innate werewolf powers that they don't really talk about (the other one he has strong suspicions about is the ability to super-fart, because Stiles _swears_ that when he pumps, the smell doesn't last as long as the werewolves in his life make places stink for.)

"We'll call for back-up," Derek says.

"And I think I hear a timer," Deucalion adds, calling through.

"We'll call for back-up very quickly," Derek amends, pulling a face.

"That we can do," Stiles says, pulling out his phone and texting as he talks. Multi-tasking is totally his thing. "But—"

"No, really," Deucalion says, practically in a hiss this time, "there's a big clock that's popped up on the desk— It says five minutes and— It's counting down. Of _course_ it is."

"Your loft is a twenty minute drive," Stiles says to Derek, quietly, even though Deucalion can probably hear it.

"Fine," Derek grits out, apparently not even needing to hear the sweet pitch Stiles was going to make — his plan of which may or may not have included several crossovers to the lyrics of the _Hokey Pokey_ — and realizing he would probably lose the argument, so he hasn't even bothered trying.

Stiles is kinda thrilled, he's not going to lie. Although sometimes he really does love arguing for the sake of it, so he hopes Derek isn't about to skip to the end of _all_ of their arguments.

"We go in together," Derek says, "and you stay close to me. And if I suddenly have to manhandle you out of the way of an obstacle, you _let me do it._ "

"Ugh, I have to let the guy I want to touch me most of the freaking time anyway _manhandle_ me? When manhandling was definitely on my urgent to-do list anyway?" Stiles pretends to look disgusted. "Let me think about it."

"Shut up and _help,_ " Deucalion yells. "Or at least come in here and use the giant ax to decapitate me and put me out of my _misery_ of listening to you two flirting. It's _painful._ "

"And yet that just compels me to do it more, sugarplum," Stiles says, pressing his body into Derek's. "What about you, sweetheart?"

"Well, _darling,_ " Derek says, "I think the faster we get him out of here with the book, the quicker we can get to the manhandling, don't you think?"

"I'm saving Deucalion's ass _right now,_ " Stiles declares and steps into the apartment.

Without the wall to block the view, Stiles can see a little of the devastation that they could hear from the outside. The giant ax is embedded in the wooden flooring, the wall is peppered with arrows, and there's a blood trail from the middle of the floor to over towards the bookshelves, marred by what looks like a giant smear of bubbling oil.

"I hate to hurry you," Deucalion says, "but _four minutes_ says urgency might be a plan."

"If we follow where he went, we should be fine," Stiles says. Derek grunts in agreement and looks slightly haunted — and it turns out to be good reason. Because apparently the two of them _can't_ follow exactly where Deucalion stepped and wow, that's an arrow headed towards Stiles' face—

Stiles blinks and swallows nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing and nearly making him nick his throat on the blade that is a millimetre away from piercing it. Derek's holding it by the shaft, looking pissed off. It might just be his regular resting face, though, so Stiles doesn't want to build his hopes up that Derek's _like_ might have even had time to blossom into _love._ Still, it's nice to be pleased at Derek's angry face for once, instead of being upset for him or feeling terrified because of him.

"Be careful," Derek hisses, dropping the arrow to one side and putting his hands protectively around Stiles' waist from behind, urging him gently to move. "I can't lose you."

Stiles thinks about it as he carefully tries to put his feet where Deucalion might have put his. Deucalion's fuck-all help, already leafing through the book in his hands and occasionally glaring at the countdown clock on the desk. "You can," Stiles says, softly, because life in Beacon Hills is just one supernatural fuckery after another and losing each other is always going to be a potential future. They're never going to stop, though. The Nemeton becoming a beacon again, that shit is down to _both_ of them, things both of them have done. They're always going to be fighting this war.

Derek's forehead settles for a moment against the nape of Stiles' neck, a sliver of exposed skin. "I _won't,_ " Derek says in a rough whisper.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Okay. Let's just— Do this and get out." He pauses at the edge of the pool of oil, frowning at the brown liquid and the bubbles, and wondering at the edges of his conscience about the fucked-up extremes the Alpha pack went to, to protect their lair, but then wolves were naturally territorial and protective of their dens. Maybe it's just nature. He's so caught up in his thoughts and unsure what to do — try and jump over? go around the edge and risk setting off something else? — when Derek makes the decision for him and picks Stiles up.

Like, literally picks Stiles up, not gracefully, not even _romantically,_ just tightens his hands and lumps Stiles up like he's a sack of potatoes before _freaking walking across the possibly still boiling-hot oil._

Stiles thinks he can even hear Derek's feet cooking through his probably-melting shoes.

What _even._ Stiles struggles out of Derek's hands and turns carefully to glare at him.

"What?" Derek says, blinking, the picture of innocence.

"You _know_ what," Stiles says, jabbing at Derek's unfairly solid chest, and then turning around with a highly-audible sigh. Deucalion's looking worse for wear, which does cheer Stiles up a little, and he bends carefully down, carefully putting his feet where there are a couple of bloody footprints already, which must be Deucalion's, before leaning down and breaking the mountain ash with his hands.

Deucalion's sigh is also very audible. "Fantastic," Deucalion says. When Stiles straightens, he can see two books in Deucalion's arms. "We'd best go. Retrace our steps. I'm not sure what will happen when the timer goes off, but I'd prefer not to be around to see it?"

Derek nods tersely and he moves towards Stiles again, but Stiles looks down to where Derek's shoes have partially melted off and Stiles can see blistered skin beneath. He holds his hands up. "Don't you even try picking me up again, buster," Stiles says, wagging a finger at Derek. He looks at the oil. "How is that even possible? You can't tell me they had boiling oil here just in case someone bad try to raid the place."

"Kali dabbled in magic," Deucalion says. "Before she was bitten. She and Julia were childhood friends. Julia took the magic more seriously. _Too_ seriously, in the end. Kali's dabbling came to some use later."

"It doesn't seem fair," Stiles says, tensing to take the leap across the oil, "that someone can be a supernatural creature _and_ wield magic."

"On the contrary," Deucalion says, leaping the oil with ease, "I think supernatural blood gives one an edge when it comes to manipulating a non-natural force."

"Oh," Stiles says, and shrieks when Derek _picks him up again._ Stiles slaps at Derek ineffectually but it's like trying to swat a fly in a headwind. Stiles has always had experience in attempting the impossible. "Seriously, Derek? I've heard of guys going to parties and picking up other guys, but _not this literally._ "

"I'm not even sorry," Derek says, dumping Stiles back on the ground on the other side, doing an amusing little dance to presumably cover up the fact that he just literally burned his feet to keep Stiles safe.

Seriously, there are going to be many words after this. _Many_ words. A lot of them will be of the four-letter variety, Stiles thinks.

"Neither am I," Deucalion says and that's the first time Stiles realizes that Deucalion's already ahead of them. Already at the door. "Thank you for your assistance, boys. I have the volume I need." He holds up the white book. "I picked up this extra one by accident, but I guess I should throw it back in the apartment seeing as I don't need it."

Stiles' mouth drops open a little, because it can't be— that would totally be— they're barely four metres away from the door and freedom. Derek's clearly thinking faster than Stiles, because he's grabbing Stiles by the arm and yanking him forwards towards the door, and they're going to make it, they are—

Deucalion hurls the spare book with a too-knowing aim and there's an ominous crack.

The door to the apartment slams shut and Stiles glances up in time to see something that looks dark and sharp, hurtling straight towards them.


	12. Chapter 12

Derek doesn't think about it because he never does. Even in a room of werewolves, as a born wolf, he seems to be stronger than most of them, except for when Scott's not too afraid of hurting people to blossom into his full power as a True Alpha, so of _course_ he flings himself over whoever's nearby.

Some of his self-sacrifice tendencies stem from his eternally crap self esteem, something he's been working on, but it's hard to drop the thought that he's worth less than everyone in the room, so it just makes _sense_ for him to shield others, to risk his life for theirs. Some of it stems from the pervading guilt — if he hadn't let Kate into his life, if he hadn't gotten his entire family killed, if he hadn't been trying to fit in Laura's footsteps and failing so hard at it, if, if _if_ — Well, there'd be so many _more_ Hales running around Beacon Hills, protecting it. And maybe they wouldn't be _in_ the whole Nemeton mess to begin with. And—

Wait, how is Derek having so much _thinking_ time? Normally he gets about a second of panicked, whiny thoughts, then the pain hits and there's no space to think about anything else apart from _well at least hopefully I just did good._ But there's no pain, even though Derek was positive this was probably going to be his last chance to jump in front of something to save Stiles' life, mainly due to the _it should have killed him_ thing.

Derek squints at Stiles, listening to his heartbeat for a moment. It's racing but it's strong. He looks down to check if Stiles is okay and apart from looking shocked, especially in the direction of what looks like a circular saw blade that has to be at least five foot in diameter, shattered into at least seven separate parts, just lying on the ground around them. Derek checks around the room nervously, expecting another one to come flying at them, and then he shares his surprised stare between Stiles' equally confused expression and the saw blade shards on the ground.

All the pieces are lying on the ground about a meter away from them, like they hit something invisible around them and just _dropped._ Except now Derek's looking, it's not invisible — there's a green light surrounding them, shining like a shield of light around them both. It's difficult to see, there one second and gone the next, and Stiles is the one to figure out where it's coming from.

"Oh man," Stiles says, pulling up his shirt to make it clearer — the green light is emanating from the belt of his Halloween costume. "No _wonder_ Lydia was so strict about not taking this off."

"Magic," Derek says dumbly, wanting to reach out to it, but magic's a tricky thing and Derek doesn't want to knock the spell out. Especially because it's managed to save Stiles' life.

"Deucalion was just saying supernatural blood gives one an edge when it comes to magic. I guess Lydia's been dabbling?"

"We'll ask her when we get out of here," Derek says, grimly. "Which as the countdown clock's still going needs to be soon." Two minutes and counting, apparently. Derek doesn't plan to stick around and find out what it's counting down to.

"Eep," Stiles says, beautifully eloquent. He pushes at Derek until he straightens and he heads straight for the door. In any other situation, Derek would make fun of Stiles for staring down basically at his crotch for the whole time, but in the circumstances, it's highly understandable.

Considering the number of furtive glances Derek's directed towards that whole general area since Stiles turned eighteen, he probably couldn't judge it happening at any time.

Stiles reaches for the door handle and tugs. And then sighs and carefully steps back to let Derek in.

"Please say it's just jammed," Stiles says, nervously looking over to the countdown clock.

"Um," Derek says and fully throws himself at the door, at the hinges because they're the weakest part, and it does nothing. "I'd _like_ to?"

"Shit," Stiles breathes and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Derek glimpses the screen — _Lydia._ "Lydia, please tell me that this belt magic thing is permanent, or lasts a while, or can withstand — well, I don't know— Wait, why is there screaming?"

Derek focuses his hearing. Yeah, that's definitely shrieking and yelling coming from Lydia's side of the phonecall.

" _The spell's designed to take concussive force_ ," Lydia says. " _Maybe two or three hits. It only lasts —_ jesusfuckingchrist, _Mason, I told you to_ fucking aim for the jugular _for a reason — about three minutes, but I figured there's always fucking something happens to us on Halloween. Please don't tell me the kobolds are all over town."_

"Kobolds? There are freaking kobolds in my loft?" Derek blurts. The thing is, Derek's sort of a master of anything supernatural beginning with K. It's why he knew  _kanima_ and knew how to identify Kira's  _kitsune_ aura. Ks are his speciality. He tries very hard a lot of the time to forget that it was because he'd focused on the K section of the Hale family beastiary because of another monster beginning with K.  _Kate._ She's gone, for good now, and Derek has to move on. Otherwise then she'll win and Derek's not okay with that.

Stiles pats his hand. "You can worry about the structural survivability of your already-filled-with-holes loft when we're not in a death room, okay?"

" _A death room_?" Lydia's voice goes tense. " _Where the hell are you? Get out of there!"_

"Trying. The door's stuck. I don't suppose the magic, uh, magic belt has any kind of magical door pick attached to it?" Stiles asks as Derek yanks the ax out of the floorboards and starts smashing the door with it to absolutely zero avail.

" _If the door's bespelled shut, you usually need someone on the outside to unlock it. I'm sending someone over."_

"No time. Countdown's under ninety seconds."

" _Countdow_ n—" Lydia punctuates the word with some choice words which Derek's sure none of the pack have taught her. " _Window?"_

Derek frowns and runs across the room, delicately retracing their footsteps and having to do an emergency forward roll when a stray arrow zooms out of the wall and straight for his head. He picks up the chair at the desk, sighing when it's not attached to some sort of trap trigger, and picks it up to haul it through the window.

It bounces off and crashes on the floor and Derek has to jump to one side when a large blade inexplicably drops from the ceiling. Derek tries not to swear when he looks across at the clock. The clock doesn't look attached to anything, but when it comes to magic, it usually doesn't mean anything.

"Get back over here," Stiles says, "four minutes for the belt might be enough. Lydia, is there anything we can do to... generically break spells? Protect ourselves from them?"

Derek hurries over the floor, jumping over the now-cooling oil, checking the whole apartment and making a mental list as to the best place to crouch and try and ride out whatever the hell is going to happen. Maybe nothing — but when have they ever been that lucky?"

" _If there's a kitchen, look for salt and sage. Four elemental cleanse. Any kind of water. Burn sage for fire. Blow out the fire for air. Crush some salt between your hands for earth. Ask the elements in turn to release you. Scott_ — _Oh. There's something_ — _No, get away from him! Get the hell_ —" Lydia's voice fades and then peaks out on a low beep. Stiles turns a worried glance to Derek, who looks over to where there's a small kitchen area and over to the clock where there's about twenty seconds left.

The small sound Stiles makes when the green light from the belt stutters and dies goes straight through Derek's heart, and Derek makes the only decision he can make He surges forward, taking Stiles' chin in his hands, and kisses him.

Stiles melts into him for a second and then pulls back, eyes wide. " _Fuck_ you and your fucking _we're gonna die_ kissing," Stiles yells and then kisses him back angrily despite his vocal displeasure, and what Stiles has termed _we're gonna die_ kissing is unfortunately turning out to be one of Derek's possibly favorite things in the universe to do. Stiles is pushed up against him and _pliable,_ he barely makes a sound to indicate he's noticed that Derek is moving him, gently ushering him so his back is against the door and his front is protected by Derek's body.

Derek's first urge will always be self-sacrifice to protect anyone, but when it comes to protecting Stiles, it feels less like he's trying to do penance, and more... _everything._ He pulls away a few seconds before the countdown's due to finish and Stiles' eyes are wet and close to his and Derek's never going to get another chance to say this.

"I love you," Derek breathes, pushing his forehead against Stiles', and his fingers claw into Stiles' shoulders even while remaining human and blunt. "I love you."

"Fucking _fucker,_ " Stiles says, still beautifully eloquent, and he's fighting tears — of rage, of fear, of shock — Derek doesn't know, except he thinks it's probably a combination of all three. Then, quieter: "I love you. _Asshole._ "

Derek laughs and he doesn't know how they got here, and at this moment, he doesn't think he cares. His heart just feels _lighter._ Maybe that's just what happens when you give it entirely away.

He grips Stiles tighter and tries not to think that once again, this is his fault. He should have left Deucalion in the room to die. Or insisted on getting back-up before coming in. Anything that would mean Stiles wasn't in danger right now. He uses his arms to cover Stiles' face, braces himself —

—and then the door opens and they fall in a heap at Malia's feet.

"Oh my god, shut the door, _shut the door,_ " Stiles yells. Malia looks startled, which to be honest is one of her main facial expressions (and who would blame her when _you're a coyote who ate your family_ was just the beginning of her rollercoaster of revelations) but she does what she's told and Derek manages to scramble up and tug Stiles away and a second later the door _shudders_ and smoke rolls out from underneath it.

"Huh," Malia says, eyeballing the smoke curling out, "you boys have been having an interesting night, then?"

Stiles goes _red_ which is almost enough to overcome the weird embarrassment Derek's feeling. Business. He has to go into business mode and sort out... what happened in there... when there's time.

"You could say that," Derek says, wrinkling his mouth.

"Can we get out of here?" Stiles asks, plaintively. "Before the whole place burns down?"

Malia nods and calls the elevator. They ride it down a floor and then head out to the stairs, pulling a fire alarm as they go, just in case the penthouse sets the whole building on fire — that smoke had looked ominous.

"Why are you here?" Stiles asks.

"Saving your life?" Malia's eyebrows communicate her disdain for Stiles' question. "It's a thing. That I do a lot. Don't know why."

"I'm _grateful,_ " Stiles says. "Believe me, I'm grateful. I'm just wondering why you're here and not punching kobolds back at the loft."

Derek stays at the rear, listening out for the other inhabitants of the apartment block. If they hustle, they can get away before anyone really reports seeing them at the scene.

"Don't think I'm not pissed about that," Malia says, hurrying down the stairs at a punishing pace that Stiles is obviously struggling to keep up with. "You know how much I love punching things. But when you didn't send a text every thirty minutes, I volunteered to come see what was going on."

"The hallway," Stiles realizes. "Time was messed up in there. I must have lost track of the proper time, or it messed with my phone's clock or something?" He looks back over his shoulder and Derek nods, not trusting himself to speak yet. Derek thinks it might come out as screaming. They survived, but it was close. It was too close."

"Anyway," Malia continues, "it was the closest chance I thought I had to hit something. But that was _before_ the kobolds attacked, because I'd have sent someone else."

"I'm sorry you missed out on all of the punching," Stiles manages to gasp out as they run down the last flight of stairs and emerge outside. There are a few families gathered outside already, one all wearing pyjamas and yawning worriedly, but Derek can't feel bad about that. He'll always prefer overzealousness in the face of families potentially burning to death. It's a lesson hard won.

"Not all the punching," Malia says, heading over to where Derek parked his car. Her motorbike (Scott's a terrible influence sometimes) is propped up beside it and Malia goes right past it to the trunk of Derek's car. "Caught this one fleeing the building when I pulled up." She pops the trunk and Derek really doesn't want to know how she has keys to his car to do that — or to get Deucalion in there in the first place. "Thought he looked shifty."

"So you punched him and then tied him up," Derek says flatly, "just because he looked shifty?"

Malia shrugs and then grins at him. "It seemed like the thing to do."

Derek just nods along. The female side of his family have always been a little crazy, but say that for them, they used to get shit done. And Malia's definitely carrying on the family tradition. Deucalion groans through the makeshift gag of what looks like an old pair of Derek's socks that he must have left in there.

"I've said it once, I've said it a million times," Stiles says, "anyone who doesn't like Malia is insane in the head."

Deucalion spits out enough of the socks to yell, " _I_ don't like her."

Stiles squints. "I think you just proved my point," he says, and nudges Malia aside with his elbow so he can reach into Derek's emergency kit and pull out the triple-wrapped box of mountain ash. He liberally sprinkles the socks and shoves them back in Deucalion's mouth and Derek suffers a mini crisis of existence when that motion turns him on, because _please_ let the ripple of arousal be a combination of adrenaline and Stiles being a mean mountain ash badass and _not_ due to Deucalion's mouth? It's not a lot to ask.

Although maybe it is too much to ask, because they _survived_ and that's everything.

Stiles is everything.

"You definitely proved Stiles' point," Derek tells Deucalion, agreeing. He sags against his car and rubs at his eyes. "Do you think Deaton would mind if we just... dumped this little problem on his doorstep and run away?"

Stiles pulls a face, considering it. "I think he owes it for that time with the dragon."

Derek shudders. Yeah. Deaton _definitely_ still owes them _and_ he'd be able to figure out if Deucalion was lying about the book thing. If he has been telling the truth, Deaton's still their best contact for getting anything done about it.

"You guys go," Malia says. "I'm gonna head back to the loft, see if there's anything left to punch. You coming back too when you're done with the douchebag?" Malia gestures at Deucalion.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Roscoe's still at the loft, so—"

"See you there."

Derek waves as Malia takes off and smiles as Stiles speedily closes the trunk of Derek's car on Deucalion's muffled squawk of indignity, because more families are coming out of the apartment building. They're muttering a lot and Derek can't smell smoke; it's probably only a matter of time before the fire department turn up and realize that maybe Derek was too hasty in pulling the fire alarm and begin to start looking for the time-wasters.

"Okay," Stiles says, heading automatically towards the passenger side of the car. He throws an expression at Derek that turns his insides to liquid. Fuck, Stiles isn't going to ignore that conversation before their thought impending doom. Double fuck, Derek doesn't think he _wants_ Stiles to ignore it. It's way too quickly to be saying _I love you._  Stiles' neck is still pink from his embarrassment earlier and Derek can't find it in him to give a crap about too quickly. "We should go before Dad gets called in."

Derek nods and guns the engine. "I guess it's time to go trick-or-treating at the Deaton house."


	13. Chapter 13

"Uh," Derek says, scratching his nose and opening up the car door, sliding into the driver's seat and ignoring Deucalion's muffled protests, "so what do you think, are we delivering Deaton a trick or are we delivering a treat?"

Stiles' eyes lock onto Derek's, expression careful. Derek swallows and looks away first, a hint of color climbing back into his cheeks that's kinda too adorable for words, except Stiles is a little too nervous to not be expecting the worst.

He's always known he's never good at saying _I love you_ at the right time. He can never force the words out when he needs to say them (like seeing his dad with his head bowed over something of mom's, his shoulders shaking, his face turned so carefully away from Stiles, or finding Scott frozen and staring, because he's found a deviantart account with another of Allison's failed hobbies on display on the internet, maybe for forever, and he can't make himself backspace away.) The fact that _he_ said them in the heat of terror—

Well, he meant them. He means them. But he's got a history of saying bad things at bad times and a history of turning everything into a joke, and he doesn't know whether he wants Derek to know he meant it or whether it might be better for him to pass it off as a joke. Because maybe Derek just said it in pity because they were about to die.

"Trick," Stiles decides eventually and Derek glances at him with an expression on his face that Stiles has never seen before. It's heated and tense and _deliberate_ and it causes Stiles to hope more than he should. Sounding braver than he feels, he turns his face forward, watching the car start to chew up the road. "I think we'll save the treat for later, don't you think?"

Derek's hand trembles a little as he reaches for the stick shift. He catches Stiles' gaze in the rearview mirror and Stiles smirks at him and the color on Derek's cheeks darken intriguingly.

Well. At least Derek hasn't stopped being interested in him _that_ way, Stiles thinks, and that thought buoys him up a little. Even if Derek didn't mean the love _now,_ maybe there was still chance that Stiles could win his heart later. Considering how close they came to death today, it's a lot.

Deaton's apartment windows are dark, but Derek apparently can catch a scent of non-urgent worry in the direction of the animal clinic; they play the odds of Deaton being conscientious even on a holiday and go straight there without bothering Scott first to call his boss, and are rewarded by the lights being open and the door being unlocked.

Stiles opens the mountain ash barrier and they slip into the back room, where Deaton is waving a pen light into the eyes of a large golden retriever.

There have been so many highlights to this day for Stiles (Wearing an actual magic belt! Lots and lots of kissing! Getting to punch Deucalion when they pulled him out of the trunk!) that the fact that seeing Deaton in a Winnie-the-Pooh onesie rates as the eleventh or twelfth best part of the day says a _lot_.

Deaton looks grumpy when he sees Derek and Stiles, but he cheers up immensely when he directs Stiles to hold the dog still while he presses careful fingers around the dog's abdomen — and the dog obligingly throws up yellow fluid all over Stiles' shirt. Deaton's smirk grows wider when Stiles reluctantly tugs off his now gooey and smelly shirt to reveal the Robin costume underneath.

"All right, Boy Wonder, how can I help you?" Deaton asks, after hooking the dog up to fluids and getting it settled.

"Besides helping me resist the urge to punch you in your rumbly-tumbly?" Stiles glowers, tugging up his jeans so at least he's not running around in the tights. "We've got a client for you. Of the lycanthropic variety."

Deaton goes back to looking vaguely grumpy and doesn't change his expression to his usual neutral until Deucalion's firmly tied to a chair, even more firmly gagged and had a contact in Sydney verify Deucalion's story.

He doesn't fully cheer up again until one of the cats Deaton's working on somehow manages to pee down Stiles' leg through the cage. Stiles glares at him, but Derek's firmly averted gaze is almost enough to lesson _some_ of Stiles' grumpiness at having to pull off his pants and yet again be frolicking around Beacon County in _tights._

_Almost_ enough. The rest of the balance, though, might be worth it when Derek's gaze drops down the full length of Stiles' legs and when he looks up, his gaze is heated and unmistakable and there may be a reason Deaton tells them they can both go now if they want.

When arousal is strong enough for _humans_ to scent, it's probably annoying.

It's cold outside considering Stiles is only wearing spandex and nylon tights. Stiles hustles into Derek's car and holds his hands over the small heating vent. Derek leans over to turn up the dial, to make it warmer, and instead of just pulling away he leans in to kiss Stiles' cheek and Stiles feels it _everywhere._

"I can take you home," Derek says, pulling back like he's reluctant to do so, and Stiles can't look away from him, entranced. Sometimes Stiles thinks he could sit and lock eyes with Derek for giant spells of time. Even now, when Derek might let him do more than just drink in his eyes with his gaze, it's a hard thing to break away from.

Stiles thinks about it. Going home. Getting changed and having a well-needed shower. Derek will go back to his loft, no question, because of the kobolds; he won't want to wait for Stiles to get clean, and Stiles wouldn't want to _make_ Derek go against his constant-must-protect-the-whole-world principles just for him.

"Let's go to the loft," Stiles says. "Heard there were some kobolds that need punching."

Derek's smile is slow and makes Stiles stop breathing, just for a second, and he guns the engine, turning them towards Beacon City and his loft.

The party's over when they get back, with hardly any cars around. At least, the Halloween party's over. There's still another party going on of a more supernatural blood and gore variety.

Their timing is just as good as their timing has been all night so far, though — albeit this time, it's more in their favor. Although not so much for Stiles, because while it's definitely a good thing there are only five kobolds left — he's never managed too well with the other six kobold infestations they've dealt with in the past, because they're small, leathery, wicked-fast and they _bite_ — unfortunately one of them flies right at his head when he opens the loft doors.

And Kira saves him, smashing the kobold in half with her costume's bow... covering both Stiles and Derek in the distinctive blue gloop of kobold innards.

Across the other side of the loft, several werewolves dressed as Batman rip apart the rest of the kobolds, remaining remarkably gut-free.

"Oops," Kira says, wincing at them. It's hard to be mad at her, ever. Stiles tries, squinting at her, but then he has to scoop kobold guts out of his hair and he throws it on the ground, grimacing.

Malia trots over to them, skipping around a patch of blue guts and gore. "This stuff smells worse than when Liam goes to Taco Bell."

" _Hey,_ " one of the Batmans yells.

"The lady speaks truth," Mason says from somewhere behind him.

"Stiles! Tell me you didn't get kobold insides on that belt, I need to re-spell it," Lydia yells from where she's stood up on Derek's kitchen counter, presumably to stay out of the way while all the Batmans did most of the hard work stopping the kobolds from biting everyone to death.

"You're welcome to it," Stiles says, undoing the belt and throwing it across to Scott, who lifts up his Batman mask to waggle his eyebrows at him and— Oh. Yeah. The belt was keeping up his skimpy Robin underpants. Stiles grabs them with both hands and scowls at his best friend before looking back at Derek. "Permission to use your bathroom?"

"Granted," Derek says, shaking kobold gore off his own sleeve. "Definitely granted."

" _Great,_ " Stiles breathes and heads for the spiral staircase. "I'm stealing some of your clothes too," he yells backwards as he picks his way over more guts and gore to get upstairs and out of the madness.

Below as he climbs the stairs he hears Derek instructing Scott that if the loft isn't spick and span, he'll be in shitloads of trouble. Scott, predictable to the last, starts complaining that the kobolds weren't _his_ fault, but Derek rightly points out that the kobold guts are mostly splattered over party debris. Scott slumps and Stiles stifles a laugh — he's in tights, there's blue guts in his hair and he's never ever going to get to be Batman, but there's something resolutely charming about Batman sagging after being told off.

If Stiles gets a move on, he'll also be able to enjoy the sight of several Batmans cleaning up.

Cheered up by that idea, Stiles finishes the stairs two at a time and heads straight for Derek's bedroom — the whole pack helped last summer make the top floor into a suite of rooms instead of just being an open-plan mess. Derek's room is the only one with an ensuite bathroom and Stiles has had the kind of night where it would be entirely likely for everyone to walk in on him naked, and... there's kinda only one person Stiles would be okay with doing that.

And oh, Stiles should _not_ have thought that before sliding into Derek's bedroom.

He actually has to take a moment, closing the door and leaning against it. He bows his head and laughs into his chest, the sound burning his throat, because it's all been so much. It's all been _too_ much. His hands are trembling and Stiles exhales, forces himself to do so calmly, and he straightens.

Business. He has to do what he has to do. He can't think properly with gloop in his hair and wrapped up in spandex which is damp with his sweat from the near-misses from earlier.

He's pragmatic. Clothes are good. Ignoring Derek's bed, sitting innocuously against the back wall, Stiles goes to Derek's dresser. There's a black t-shirt in the top drawer that Stiles thinks used to be his anyway and a generic pair of sweatpants in a soft fabric with a drawstring at the waist that he can probably tie tight enough to fit him. His fingers hover over the drawer of neatly folded underpants but he shuts the drawer firmly. Commando will be fine.

He enters Derek's bathroom and shuts the door, methodically peeling the spandex from his body as he turns the hot water on. His hands tremble less with every movement. It's when he steps into the spray that his body trembles, once, twice, three times — and he's crying.

The water drowns out the sound and he's glad of that. They soundproofed all the rooms up here to a certain extent, but Stiles doesn't want the others to hear him crying and think something's wrong, because nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong and he shouldn't be crying but he is.

Maybe it's sharp relief of surviving certain doom, or maybe it's just pure happiness. Or maybe it's fear, that he's too happy. That when you're too happy, _that_ is when the world takes things away from you.

It's a stupid fear. It's irrational. Stiles focuses his breathing, counting each breath until the tears have subsided, and he washes himself methodically. He feels like he's only made of limbs when he dries himself and his legs shake a little when he climbs into the pants.

When he looks into the fogged-up mirror, Stiles almost doesn't recognize himself. He pushes his hair away from his forehead and wonders if it is possible to grow up, just in a few hours. If he squints, he can see his mother's eyes in his face. He's definitely always had her nose.

"I hope you'd be proud of me, mom," Stiles says to his reflection. It's been years since he last spoke to his mom. Before high school, he used to talk to her every day. "There's this guy called Derek. I think you'd like him. He likes me." He laughs and looks down at his hands, which are involuntarily gripping the edge of the sink. He looks back up at the mirror and holds eye contact with himself. "He said he loves me."

"That's because I do."

Stiles startles to see Derek hovering in the doorway — and he smacks his elbow against the sink in surprise. Even in his surprise, or maybe because of it, Stiles finds his face stretch into a wide smile, which Derek shyly returns. Derek steps forward, taking Stiles' elbow in one hand, gingerly frowning down at it.

"That's probably going to bruise," Derek says, softly. "Can't take you anywhere." The expression is an often repeated one from the pack when it comes to Stiles, mainly because of his ability to injure himself in even the safest environments.

"What are you gonna do, huh? Keep me here, permanently?" Stiles quirks one eyebrow, half-meaning it as a joke, but half meaning it as a suggestion, because he's tired and he's _happy_ and if Derek didn't mean _I love you_ as a joke or as pity, then Stiles doesn't need to leave. He doesn't need to be anywhere but where he is.

"Don't tempt me," Derek says, moving in closer and sliding an arm around Stiles, pulling him closer. Stiles lets himself be tugged in and he loops his hands around Derek's neck, just needing to touch him. There's something to be said for werewolves needing an anchor. And Stiles is _Derek's_ anchor.

"I meant it too," Stiles mumbles into Derek's shoulder. "It's too soon, though, right? I mean, it's— And I'm—" He pulls back, feeling miserable, looking up at Derek's face like Derek's a book that he can read truth in, and reach the final chapter where everything's revealed to be a lie. "I'm _nothing_ compared to you guys. I don't even get to be a pretend hero on _Halloween._ "

"You're a hero to me," Derek says.

Stiles punches Derek in the arm. Even though he's had several punching lessons courtesy of both Kira and Malia, and he's much better than he used to be, it's still like punching a brick wall. "If we're going to be a _thing_ —"

"A _thing,_ " Derek repeats sarcastically.

"A thing," Stiles affirms and Derek shakes his head fondly, probably wondering what he's done to deserve a massive goofball in his life. "Well. You shouldn't lie to me, is what I mean. And I shouldn't lie to you, obviously. I mean, I probably will, because I'm kind of a compulsive liar on occasion, but as it's usually about how much homework I've done, and the true answer is usually _nothing much_ and my lie is usually _all of it,_ and you can werewolf your way into hearing the truth anyway—"

"Stiles," Derek says, his voice low and his eyes trained on Stiles'. "It's not a lie. I told you about— about Mexico. You becoming my anchor."

Yeah, that's still something that's going to blow Stiles' mind for a while. "Yeah?"

"That helped me. And you guys rescued me physically. But... you rescued me mentally too," Derek says. "For the two months when she—" He swallows. Even now, it's hard to say. "When Kate tortured me, you were already saving me. You were in my head. You kept me going. You kept me..."

"Anchored," Stiles says and Derek nods, stunned. Stiles has always been able to finish his most painful sentences.

"But not even just to humanity. To _sanity._ To hope." Derek smiles, soft and sad. "To life. You kept me alive when I just wanted to curl up and die. I had to come back. I had to come back to _you._ "

_You came for this abomination?_ Kate had shrieked in Mexico, across the smoke-filled battleground. _You've wasted your time. He's not worth anything._

_You're wrong,_ Stiles had said. _He's worth everything. And you're the abomination for not realizing that._

"You were my hero," Derek says. "You'll never be a sidekick, Stiles. Not to me."

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but there aren't any words to come, because the way Derek's looking at him— He means it. He's always meant it. Stiles' voice is shaky. "Careful, buster. The way you're talking, I'm gonna think you've been in love with me since way back then."

Derek's voice is quieter when he says, seriously, "Maybe I have been. And I'm sorry."

" _Sorry_?" Stiles blurts, and the burn of it feels natural, like _oh, here's the sting I was expecting,_ and Stiles lifts his chin a bit higher, ready to take whatever blow Derek's read to deal.

"I should have said it in a different situation," Derek says. "Not in a situation where we were both going to die. You deserved for it to happen after we've dated for a while, after you were more certain of your own feelings, not for me to blurt it out like a coward, scared I'd never get a proper chance."

"I was glad to hear it," Stiles says. "Even if I, uh, wasn't super graceful about it."

"You were fine," Derek says, his fingers digging into Stiles' flesh in a way that punctuates the truth of his statement. "You deserved better and that's what I'm sorry about. But I won't be sorry about what I said. I do love you. Since Mexico. _At least_."

Stiles' chest constricts and he's fairly sure, soundproofing aside, that all the wolves downstairs must be able to hear his jack-hammering heart.

"I—" Stiles starts, and swallows, braver, and thinks about how angry he was when Kate insulted Derek. How furious he was that whole spring, as they tracked Derek down and fought to bring him home. He'd been so angry with her, so ready to rip her cold dead heart out with his bare hands, and oh. _Oh._ Seeing Derek, so close to death, had nearly killed Stiles, and apparently there's a reason for that. "Me too, I think," Stiles says, voice thick with the realization.

Derek's harsh, sudden exhale sounds like everything Stiles feels inside and then it's just instinct from then. It's instinct and it's _need_ to press himself against Derek, to lean into a kiss that steals his breath away and his ability to think in complete sentences. Derek makes a needy sound in the back of his throat and his hands slip down to Stiles' sides and Stiles just _reacts,_ launching his weight at Derek, wrapping his legs around Derek and making a satisfied sound of success when Derek's hands slide under his ass, hiking him up higher. Stiles' hands slide into Derek's hair and grip on tight and he matches Derek kiss for kiss, possessive and driving, like desire has become manifest between them, something to fight for, something to own with their mouths and their lips and their tongues.

Stiles is so dizzy from the kissing that he doesn't notice Derek spinning him around, he doesn't notice the pain when they collide with the bathroom door. He laughs into Derek's mouth, overcome with joy, that this could be his. Stiles lets one hand go and Derek supports him so easily, his strength a massive turn-on, not that Stiles needs anything else to be stimulated. He's one breeze away from an erection; as his fingers close around the cold metal of the bathroom door handle and he manipulates it open, that breeze is Derek's soft chuckle of success as Stiles fails three times at opening the door, and then they nearly stumble through when Stiles manages to get it open.

Stiles pulls his mouth away, already swollen from the kissing, with the vague realization he's going to have a hell of a beard burn rash later, but that's the kind of pain Stiles is looking forward to. He likes to properly earn his pain. "If there's one thing I've learned from tonight," Stiles says, "beyond how amazing your ass feels beneath my fingers, is that you need to lock the door and you need to lock it now."

"Ugh," Derek says, "I just pictured Deucalion and your dad turning up to interrupt." He gently lowers Stiles down to the carpet and turns, hurrying to the door and flicking the lock closed. When he turns back to Stiles, his expression is heated, and his movements back towards Stiles are deliberate.

Stiles' mouth is dry and he grabs Derek by the front of his shirt, reeling him in. If he starts to think about things he might start shaking again and he wants this too much to waste time now. "You should get rid of this," Stiles says, nodding firmly. "You're definitely wearing too many clothes."

Derek arches both eyebrows in an expression that is more suave than anything Stiles could manage in a lifetime, but he drops both hands to the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth movement.

Stiles' mouth twitches. "That doesn't even spoil the mood," he says, poking at the Batman logo on Derek's chest. The edges of Derek's mouth fall a little. He'd clearly not remembered he was still dressed as Batman, underneath his clothes. _I did that,_ Stiles thinks, so proud of himself. _I made him forget._ The thought makes him feel braver and Stiles smirks. "I'm a little sad I can't even think of a funny Batman-related pun, though."

"It feels a little like there should be a punch line," Derek says.

Stiles squints. "That's a little weak. How about an _actual_ Batman joke? So, Batman and Robin come out of a bar, but Batman's crazy drunk, so he lets Robin drive."

"If this is a ploy to get me to let you drive the soccer mom car—"

" _No,_ " Stiles says, pretending to be offended. He beams when Derek rolls his eyes. "So anyway, Robin guns the engine, reaches out, and shifts the car to first gear, second gear, third gear, then into neutral when there's a stop light. And this continues until they get back to the batcave."

"Okay?"

"Batman leans in and asks Robin to kiss him. Robin's angry. _What the hell, Batman, just because I dress in tights, it doesn't mean I'm gay._ Batman looks back at him and replies, _That's hard to believe._ "

"Why?"

"That's what Robin said. And Batman says, _Because the batmobile is automatic, it doesn't have a stick shift._ " 

Stiles looks up to see Derek's reaction.

Derek's squinting at him.

Stiles squints back. "Not funny?"

"I guess," Derek says, not looking amused.

"Robin thought that Batman's boner was his—" Stiles starts to explain.

"I got that," Derek says and Stiles worries for a second, because maybe he's just killed the mood. With an admittedly terrible joke. He worries for about 2.5 seconds more, until Derek adds, thoughtfully, "I always did use to imagine that you'd tell bad jokes in bed."

Oh, yeah, there's the mood again. Right there. The idea that Derek has thought about him in bed in any sort of capacity is a giddy type of thrill.

Stiles is feeling dizzy. It's probably down to the fact that there's not a lot of spare blood for his brain right this second. "Well, I've done the bad joke bit," Stiles says, and jerks his head towards the bed. "It's your job to sort out the bed part."

Derek blinks a few times and then he squares his chin determinedly. "Just to rest, though," Derek says, carefully.

Stiles doesn't pout, because that would be the childish thing to do, and while Stiles feels like a child most of the time, the way Derek looks at him, he doesn't feel immature at all. He feels right. He feels like _himself._ Calm and collected and better, just for being better in Derek's eyes. "And to kiss a little," Stiles says, because he's always going to push for more.

Derek rolls his eyes but takes Stiles' hands and tugs him over to the edge of the bed. Smiling, Stiles puts his palm flat on the Batman symbol and pushes him down, wondering how long it's going to take for Derek's _just to rest_ affirmation to last.

* * *

If Stiles had bet anything longer than an hour, well. He would have been so, so wrong.


	14. Chapter 14

The thing is, "just to rest" did have several major flaws to it as a concept.

First, Stiles will always push at the boundaries of rules to see how far he can stretch them, that's just who he is. Second, Stiles doesn't really know how to stay still for any length of time. Third, it's a plan. And there's one thing that everyone knows: Derek Hale is _shit_ when it comes to plans.

Just like every single one of his failed plans, it seems like it's going well at the start. Stiles is pliable in the best sort of way, in the way he gets when he needs to have a nap, and although he's the one to push Derek down onto the bed, he lets Derek pull him down and gently roll him onto his side.

Stiles makes a desperate, sad sound when Derek moves to get up from the bed. "You're supposed to join me," Stiles says and actually _pouts_ because... yeah, he's eighteen. "For kissing. And maybe more."

"I'm not making out with you dressed like Batman," Derek says and pushes up from the bed.

"Ugh, you're the worst," Stiles mutters. "It's been one of my lifelong _dreams_ to make out with a hot guy dressed as Batman."

"I'm sure," Derek says, managing to sound almost demure, even though he's fighting the urge to smile. The wide kind of smile that Laura used to warn him was incredibly scary. "I'm also sure that _last_ week you said one of your lifelong dreams was to beat Scott's record of eating seventeen Peeps in a row. And not a week later, you said you wanted to streak at a Mets game."

"I have a lot of lifelong dreams. I'm an amazing list-maker. Scott says compulsive instead of amazing, but he's good at saying stupid things sometimes."

Derek pulls out some clothes from his drawers quickly, picking the comfortable option. In another life he'd probably be wanting to impress Stiles, find that round-necked baseball shirt that clung to his abs and the pair of pants that hang low on his hips, but he doesn't think he needs to impress Stiles. "Sometimes?" Derek questions and is rewarded by a breathy chuckle from Stiles which ripples down Derek's back and settles low in his body, a curl of heat that without much more help would become full-blown arousal.

Something which isn't helping: reaching for a pair of underpants and realizing the drawer is still the way he left it earlier. Which means Stiles didn't borrow any. Fuck. _Fuck._ Derek forces himself to swallow and that stops him from blurting something stupid out loud. But only for a second. "Stiles?" Derek's voice sounds quiet to his ears, almost muted. Maybe it's because he can hear his heart pounding above everything, a distracting sonic wall muffling all else.

"Yeah?"

"Did you—" No, it doesn't matter. "Never mind."

"Did I _what_?" Stiles asks. "C'mon, dude, just ask. There's no such thing as a stupid question, unless you're Isaac Lahey, in which case all questions are stupid."

Derek makes the mistake of turning around. Stiles is in his bed, lying on top of his comforter, propping his head up on one hand and a bent elbow and looking entirely at home. Like he belongs there. The navy blue sheets and black borrowed clothing only serves to make Stiles' skin look paler. Derek wants to touch it all. To peel down that clothing. See if his skin is pale everywhere. See what that pale skin looks like in contrast to Stiles' full erection, flushed with blood and stark color. See if Stiles has moles _everywhere._ "Uh, it's just—" Oh, he can't even finish one easy sentence. Goddammit. He's not going to let the thought of Stiles naked completely derail his brain. "You could have borrowed my underwear if you needed to."

"Who says I didn't?" Stiles says, blinking up at him, innocently.

Derek frowns, because he's not got a lot of the staples when it comes to clothing and he thinks he'd remember having more. "You didn't," Derek says, wishing he sounded a little more confident.

"Maybe I did," Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows.

" _Prove_ it," Derek says automatically, without thinking, and apparently his subconscious is a bit of a pervert.

Stiles doesn't even hesitate. He pushes down the sweatpants, just far enough to reveal an expanse of pale skin, unmarred by moles, the hint of a dimple, a suggestion of the curve of his currently bare ass.

"Oh," Derek says, "Um." Some of Stiles' eloquence from earlier has rubbed off on him. _Rubbed off,_ Derek's mind teasingly says, and Derek clutches his change of clothes to himself and gestures at the door. "I'm going to go change," Derek says, turns around and walks straight into the door frame.

Stiles dissolves into giggles and Derek scowls and doesn't look back. Mostly because he won't know how to _not_ leap across the room and see how much of Stiles' skin he could cover with his hands, if he looks back and that skin is still on display.

"Make yourself at home," Derek calls back loudly, aiming for courtesy over coherence, and he shuts himself in the bathroom, breathing like he's had to run a half-marathon in under ten minutes. He sinks back against the door and stares down at his crotch, wondering if he could glare his boner down. People say his glare is totally scary. It _could_ work. Derek unbuttons his jeans and the tip of his dick escapes his briefs even before he's put his hands to the elastic waist of them, swollen and already leaking pre-come.

Shit. He can't do this. He can't climb into his bed, with Stiles right there, and let him leave come morning. He needs to get rid of his erection, change his clothes, and go downstairs, make sure that the pack aren't making a third hole in the loft wall to match the other two. (The first one had come with the place, the second one... Well, the pack _told_ him that the witches had done it, but sometimes Malia eyeballs the hole proudly, the way she does when she comes across other property damage across town that Derek _knows_ she's caused. His cousin has lethal fists; Sheriff Stilinski made noises last fall about her registering them as lethal weapons, when he walked in on her _successfully_ punching a cinder block into submission. And many, many parts.)

Thinking of the pack helps kill his boner. Feeling better, Derek takes a perfunctory shower (cold water, even though his arousal is mostly under control), pulls on a clean pair of briefs, follows it up with sweatpants and a threadbare black t-shirt that informs people that he's not cynical, everything sucks. It's probably one of Stiles' shirts; when Derek finishes pulling the shirt over his head, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He's smiling. And it's not his cheesy _hey there, pretty person, I need something from you_ smile or _hi law enforcement, I'm not breaking the law._ It's genuine. It's real. It's a smile he can feel from his face to his toes and it's been _so long_. He can't remember the last time he smiled like this.

Maybe two years ago, back when Cora came back into his life. He'd been so careful around, so much on egg shells, but that first night, with her pottering around upstairs while he slept in the main room below, he'd listened to her heartbeat and allowed himself to forget, just for a moment, just for a _second,_ all the tragedy, all the pain. Gone was his dead family and his guilt and the weight of Erica's body in his arms, and in its place, just for a second, was a smile of pure joy. _This is your baby sister, Derek. Her name's Corazon. It means heart. She'll have the strongest heart of us all. Say hi to Derek, Cora._

Family had been his sole happiness back then and Stiles isn't family. At least, not by blood. But maybe by heart. And that's always the strongest part.

Derek takes a steadying breath and meets his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't often look at himself. Doesn't often like what he sees. But tonight— Tonight he can see his father's eyes. His mother's cheekbones. The tilt of his aunt's chin. The curve of Laura's hairline. And a strength in among all of it which is _him._

Stiles loves him. And Derek can do right by him. He's capable of it. He can rise to this challenge. He's a werewolf in body, but in spirit, he's finally a phoenix. Reborn of the ashes of his past. Not quite whole, but not so broken. Not anymore.

Derek nods to himself and turns around, ready to walk out of the bathroom and into the rest of his life. It feels appropriate he'll be moving forwards with Stiles at his side. And he opens the door with brilliant intentions, to lie down next to Stiles, to soothe the man he loves until Stiles falls asleep, and then he'll leave, to avoid all temptation, because Stiles deserves the best, and—

Derek's thoughts of good intentions and his shaky new plans at a better life aren't all gone, per se, but they're definitely, suddenly and _defiantly_ shoved to the back of his mind.

Because Stiles has taken _make yourself at home_ to a— Well—

A very Stiles level.

Derek can't stop staring. He manages to close the bathroom door behind himself. He falteringly tries to remember if the door is locked. Yes. He locked it. Earlier. When Stiles kissed him. Or did he kiss Stiles? He honestly can't remember. His brain, which he'd so diligently tried to repopulate with a functioning amount of blood, is abruptly denied again as Derek goes hard so fast he's almost dizzy with it.

He hadn't even known he _could_ get hard this fast.

Stiles levels a smirk at him and doesn't stop what he's doing. His movements are obscured by the sweatpants he's wearing, loose enough that Stiles has no problem moving his hand, but it's still unmistakable what he's doing, even before Derek takes a lungful of the air's scent.

When he does, his self-resolve is lost. There's a weird sound in the air and Derek realizes from Stiles' widened smirk that it came from Derek's throat.

"You said," Stiles says, his words broken into breathy little chunks, "to make myself at home."

"Not the definition I was aiming for," Derek manages. He's proud of himself for managing a vaguely coherent statement, because his head is pounding in unison with his dick. Stiles' hand continues to move, a slow rhythm, and Derek can picture it in his head, wants to picture it in real life. Wants to go over there and tug Stiles' sweatpants down, so he can see it for himself.

"It's funny how many times people say one thing and my definition is completely off-base," Stiles says, not even stopping as he lock gazes with Derek.

Fuck. _Fuck._ Derek has intentions of being a better person but how is anyone supposed to survive something like this? Stiles' hand makes a slick sound, flesh against flesh sliding with the aid of something wet, and considering Derek can't see his lube anywhere on the bed or the sidetable, it's probably pre-come. Stiles is sliding pre-come over the length of his erection, slowly teasing himself with his fingers, with those long pale fingers, and _Derek can't see._

"Fuck," Derek breathes and resists the urge to facepalm.

Stiles turns his gaze away from Derek and down to his own crotch, to the movement of cloth obscuring his self-pleasuring. "Well, I'd be _up_ for that, but _someone_ said this had to be just resting."

"You're not resting," Derek says. Three words. It feels like Derek's managed to produce a novel. How is he supposed to survive this? Seriously? It's a tsunami of feelings and without a magical cure-all, Derek can only endure it.

"I find it easier to sleep if I masturbate first," Stiles says. His cheeks are stained red, his chest moving with a quicker rhythm than his hand, slowly teasing up and down. "Releases some of the tension. I didn't think you'd mind."

Oh god. Derek opens his mouth to say something. Anything. His brain's probably trying to focus with the bare blood minimum. Probably only a teaspoon worth.

"That looks painful," Stiles comments and the words don't make sense, until Derek realizes Stiles is looking at him again. Specifically at a certain part of him.

"I'm not a good person," Derek blurts.

Stiles looks up at his face again and just looks amused.

"I mean it," Derek says. "A good person would walk out. Would stop staring. Would—"

"Just get your ass over here and give me a hand."

And oh, Derek's strong, but he's not _this_ strong. He can't _not_ go to Stiles. Still, Derek wants to treat him right. And that means some things are off the cards until they can have a full discussion. See what to expect from each other. See how far they're both willing to go, what they want from this relationship, what they need.

Penetrative sex is firmly off the menu, because that's not something he's willing to risk jumping in with both feet with Stiles. They're going to talk, and talk _hard,_ but neither of them are in any condition to talk in that much depth right now.

"Okay," Derek says, the words feeling too big for his mouth, "okay. But rules. There are rules."

Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn't protest. Of all the pack, he's been more keenly aware than most of Derek's issues with consent. Of course, of all the pack, Stiles is the one who's pushed the most. Give him an inch and he'll find a way to convince you to let him have a mile, yeah, but Stiles also knows when to pull back.

"I can do rules," Stiles says, his eyes tracking across Derek's face, going back and forth rapidly until Derek approaches the bed. Derek throws him a sceptical look and leans against the side of the bed. "I _can._ With the appropriate motivation." With Derek closer, Stiles' hand stops moving.

"Who said you could stop touching yourself?" Derek asks.

"Uh," Stiles says, "I thought—"

"You thought wrong," Derek says and sits on the bed, swinging his legs up so he's sitting against the headboard. "Scooch up so you're sitting between my legs."

Stiles frowns, but does what Derek says, and _oh_ that's something interesting to explore later. Derek mentally adds it to the list of things to discuss with Stiles, along with other important things. Like where does Stiles see himself, position-wise, if they decide anal penetration is in their future? (Hopefully Stiles is versatile, like Derek, but Derek's kind of okay with whatever Stiles says.) Does Stiles want their relationship to be exclusive? (Derek hopes yes, but he's also realizing he's kind of okay if Stiles wants something else, and it's probably something to do with the epic Stiles blinders he seems to have cultivated over the last few years.)

Stiles is nervous now, Derek can feel it in the unbalanced way that Stiles lets his weight fall back down to the mattress, as he shuffles backwards towards Derek. Apparently Stiles used up all his bravery points in masturbating with an audience. Stiles is always ridiculously brave.

He doesn't want Stiles to be nervous. He wraps an arm loosely around Stiles' body, wrapping his fingers around Stiles' left hand. Stiles is right-handed, apparently for all major things.

Derek leans in, noses at Stiles' cheek until Stiles turns his head far enough to kiss. It's never an ideal angle, but there's something exotic about it anyway. Stiles makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and Derek pulls away from the kiss, leaving Stiles panting. "Touch yourself again," Derek says, softly, right into Stiles' ear. Stiles shivers. "I want to see you do it from this angle."

Stiles freezes for just a moment, but then his right hand moves to his erection again. Even moving across the bed didn't cause it to flag and from this position, resting his head on Stiles' shoulder, Derek has a front row seat to the pretty flush of Stiles' cock, the touch of fluid that leaks from the head, the way Stiles' fingers slick-slide over the veins. He can't see Stiles' balls from this angle, but he can imagine them, dark and flushed, drawing up closer to Stiles' body the closer he gets to the edge.

Stiles' head lolls back on Derek's chest and he pants, his tongue darting out to wet his slack mouth, as he slides his fist up and down his cock in a rhythm that speeds up in painfully small increments. Stiles' thumb catches the head with every up-movement, smoothing over the top before his hand slides back down, and there's enough pre-come to make the air thick with the sound of Stiles' hand rubbing his hard shaft. Derek's nostrils are full of the smell of him and he groans, letting the sound vibrate into Stiles' skin as he presses kisses into the junction of Stiles' neck. He ducks his head, trailing the line of Stiles' collar bone with his tongue.

"Thought I told you to give me a hand," Stiles says, the sound labored, impeded by a soft panting that Derek's already addicted to. He can imagine Stiles on his back, ankles hooked behind Derek's hips, Derek pushing the thick tip of his penis into the sweet pucker of his asshole, pushing through the protesting ring of muscle, sinking into the hot, tight depths of Stiles' ass, and that panting firmly in his ear, and those small addictive moans that Stiles has no idea he's even making.

"So you did," Derek says and reaches down, because he does have a rule and it's one he's not saying out loud, but it's one he's going to stick to. Until they can hash out the full complexities of this relationship, Derek's not going to touch Stiles' dick. At _all._ Not with his own hands, anyway.

That still leaves a wonderful spectrum of possibilities, and Derek engages with one of them now, by wrapping his hand around Stiles' hand. The one that's currently wrapped around Stiles' dick. Stiles makes a low and desperate moan that he _has_ to know he made, and Derek starts moving Stiles' hand for him, forcing a new rhythm while not allowing Stiles to loosen his grip.

"That's it," Derek says, "settle into it. Settle into me. Just ride it out."

"Oh god," Stiles breathes, turning his head so Derek can feel some of the air from that addictive panting sound on his cheek. " _Derek._ "

"Yeah," Derek says, his voice catching. "Keep your hand loose. Let me move it for you."

"This," Stiles says, his breathing hitching, "should not be as hot as it is."

Derek looks down and has to agree. Having two hands on Stiles' dick is bad in one way, because Derek can hardly see any of it, and he's already getting the feeling that he's going to want to do a _lot_ of looking when they're in bed in the future. Stiles' dick isn't as long as Derek's, but it's maybe a bit thicker, plump at the head in a way that makes Derek's mouth water a little. Today isn't the day for a blowjob, because there isn't time. Derek needs a day for that where he has Stiles in his bed for several uninterrupted hours, because he wants Stiles to come first, so that when he has that pretty dick in his mouth he can feel the weight of it on his tongue as he suckles it back into full hardness.

Stiles is close to exploding now, just the pressure of their two hands, just the tip of his dick peeking out with every joined thrust. Stiles makes a lower noise that sounds almost strangled and his hips jolt; Derek presses his left arm in tighter to their bodies, and scissors his legs to hold Stiles in place between his legs. He mostly just wants to force Stiles to be still when he comes, but it comes with the added benefit of acquainting Derek's erection with the curve of Stiles' ass.

Stiles didn't fully pull the sweatpants down, just far enough to free his erection, but it's enough to reveal the hint of Stiles' ass, the crack that teases more below. Derek hisses as his erection's trapped more closely against it and he focuses on his task. The faster Stiles comes, the faster Derek can move him and get some relief of his own. Even though it feels pretty good like they are.

Stiles can't move much, but he can undulate his hips a little and he does so, pushing back against Derek's erection like if he pushes back far enough, Derek might accidentally slip in. Derek can feel Stiles' ass muscles even through the sweatpants, and his grip on Stiles' hand involuntarily tightens and Stiles hisses.

Derek re-focuses on Stiles' erection, not the pleasant pressure building up between his thighs, and he quickens the rhythm into a punishing up-and-down, applying more pressure on the upstrokes so that Stiles' thumb catches on the sensitive head. The pressure between his legs buzzes with the friction, making Derek dizzy with emotion. He buries his mouth into Stiles' neck again, kissing and kissing while his hand movement becomes jerkier, faster, and then Stiles is moaning Derek's name, quiet with the trained volume level of a teenager living in a home with paper-thin walls, but moaning Derek's name nevertheless, like he can't _help_ it, and he's coming, thick white strands of come streaking out of Stiles' dick, coating both their hands in the warm sticky fluid.

Stiles' breathing is fast and starts to slow down, even as Derek moves his hand on Stiles', once more, twice more, three times more — a last remnant of come spurts out, running down Derek's fingers. Before he can really think about how Stiles might react, Derek lets go of Stiles' hand to lift his come-streaked hand to his own mouth. He tongues at the fluid, tasting it carefully, letting the salty taste coat his tongue. He swallows the small amount, the bitter after-taste hitting the back of his throat. Stiles twists his head and pulls a face, like he can't believe Derek did it, and Derek laughs and kisses Stiles.

Stiles makes a small sound of protest, but relaxes into the kiss, before shaking his head a little bit and twisting in Derek's grip, until Stiles is kneeling between Derek's legs, holding Derek's face in his hands like he's something precious, and the kiss deepens as Stiles adjusts to the taste of himself on Derek's tongue. Stiles drops a hand between them, moving to trail it over Derek's cloth-trapped erection, and Derek grabs his wrist.

"No touching," Derek says, into Stiles' skin. "Too soon."

Despite his inability to explain fully why it's so important they don't rush into anything, Stiles seems to understand. "Okay," Stiles says, simply. He tilts his head and then smiles, mischievous. "Maybe there's something _else_ that doesn't require hands, then."

And oh, of course Stiles is going to push — but maybe that's what Derek wanted. To find his own limits. Derek's never felt safe enough with anyone before to test how far he's happy to go with any part of this, but with Stiles, he does feel safe. He _is_ safe.

"Okay," Derek says, watching Stiles worriedly. He doesn't know really what he's expecting. Maybe Stiles will try for a blowjob, but he has to know that's too much too. Too intimate. They're already rushing so far, but Derek's keen to hold back. To do _some_ of this properly, even though _I love you_ already came far too soon.

Stiles leans back on his heels, frowns for a second, and then nods as if deciding something before reaching for the waistband of the sweatpants he's wearing and taking them down even more.

"I'm not ready for that," Derek says quickly, reaching out to touch Stiles' hand, to make sure Stiles knows it's not _him,_ it's Derek.

Stiles shakes his head and smiles that soft, fond smile again that is an inch away from becoming a smirk as he wriggles over to the other side of the bed, away from the V of Derek's legs. "That's not what I had in mind, buster. _That_ is something we're both gonna have to work up to. My ass is virgin, and my dick is an ass-virgin, and both firmly deserve to be _wooed._ "

Derek returns the smile. "So what did you have in mind?"

"Well," Stiles says, "I kinda thought if I lie here like this—" He stretches out on the bed, lying on his stomach, resting his head in his hands. "And I squeeze my thighs together nicely for you—"

_Oh._ Derek's stomach lurches and his erection bobs happily towards his stomach. He gets it. "Oh, my god," Derek says, weakly.

"That's my phrase," Stiles says. His voice sounds a little slurred, sex-happy, and he waves. "Have at it, my man."

They're still both mostly dressed, Derek's hands almost aching with the desire to touch the pale skin on offer, to feel how Stiles' ass would flex under his fingers. The desire is too much and he reaches out as he gently straddles Stiles' legs, not lowering his weight down. As his fingers stroke over the firm curve of Stiles' ass, Stiles lets out a groan.

"Just touching me," Stiles says, "you have _no_ idea how good this feels."

Derek bends down and presses a soft kiss to Stiles' left butt cheek which makes him burst out into giggles.

"Tickles," Stiles murmurs, sounding so happy that Derek laughs too, a short sound.

Derek's sex education, when he turned thirteen and his dad sat him down with a constipated expression (eventually Talia had sailed in and done a better job of it in two minutes than his dad had spent faltering over the words in an hour), had been vaguely odd. His parents weren't so much focused on the mechanics and the consequences as the emotions of the event. Why it was too much for a young man to feel. He blanked out most of the talk as soon as he could, but one bit remained with him: how sex with the right person should be fun. That you shouldn't be afraid of laughing.

When Kate had laughed in bed, it was to mock his inexperience. Jennifer hadn't laughed once, although she'd smiled at the end like she'd won something, and Derek didn't know at the time what that was. There had been people in-between, small pockets of human contact, lonely islands of touch, and they'd been too-brief interludes, barely enough time to climax and catch his breath, no time for laughing. Derek couldn't comprehend why anyone would laugh in bed. Sex was a serious thing, nothing to do with fun.

He couldn't comprehend it then, but now, now he can. There's a ridiculousness to this thing with Stiles that has Derek laughing gently, and Stiles sniggers into his arms, and it's not a horrible sound. It's not designed to put him down. It's not against him.

It's _with_ him.

When he slides his dick into the welcoming heat of Stiles' thighs, the head nosing into the soft skin of Stiles' balls, the warm crease of Stiles' ass pressing in tight, it's like coming home. Derek can't believe he's doing this, can't believe Stiles is letting him, can't believe Stiles is making hungry noises like this is doing something to him too. His hips move almost on autopilot, fucking into the tight, hot gap like his dick is hungry for it, and Derek's fingers are hungry too, hungry for skin. He tugs impatiently at Stiles' t-shirt, rucking it up just so he place his palms on Stiles' back, so he can feel the muscles in Stiles' back underneath his fingers.

"Feels good," Stiles murmurs, shifting in the spot and somehow making everything hotter, tighter. Derek bites down on the moan he wants to make, sure it'll test the limits of the soundproofing of the room. The small gap is slick now, with Derek's pre-come and Stiles' sweat, and Derek can't stop fucking into that space, nudging Stiles' balls, teasing his asshole with every other stroke. He wants to do this forever, so of course it's entirely too soon that he's coming, painting the back of Stiles' thighs with his come, streaks of white looking so good against the pink flush of Stiles' ass cheeks. Stiles flips onto his back while Derek's still holding himself up over him, probably staring, stupefied, and Stiles' grin is smug and self-satisfied as he leans up, pulling up the sweatpants before tugging Derek down, distracting him with kisses until Derek leans his whole weight down on Stiles, which just makes Stiles give this self-satisfied _purr_.

"You're amazing," Stiles says, pulling back and smiling wide, tired. "We've got to do that again."

"Maybe the other way around," Derek murmurs, kissing him gently before shifting his weight to Stiles' side. Stiles immediately curls his body into Derek's. The scent of them is thick on the air.

"Mm, we need to shower again," Stiles says, lifting a hand up to toy with the hair at the nape of Derek's neck, which is still damp. "We didn't think this through."

"Not at all."

"No regrets, though?" Stiles peers up at Derek. The room's gloomy, half-lit by one light on near the door, but Derek can see him clearly enough to see the worry on his face.

Derek leans in and kisses Stiles firmly. When he says, "No regrets," it's not a question, but a firm statement.

"Wish we could stay like this forever," Stiles says, his voice quiet as his fingers trace patterns across Derek's arms and back. He nestles his forehead into Derek's shoulder, pliant and content. "Do the others—"

Stiles doesn't finish the question. "Do they what?" Derek asks.

"It's okay, it's selfish—"

"What?" Derek presses, tilting Stiles' chin up so he's looking at him.

"I was just thinking back to when Scott started formally dating Kira. The whole pack was in on everything, with opinions, and judgments, and— I want us to have chance to see what happens without them elbowing in." Stiles wrinkles his mouth. "But I don't want you to be a dirty little secret."

Derek considers it. Stiles is right. If the pack knows they're dating, they'll push in. Interfere. He pictures it and does not like what he imagines. He wants Stiles for himself, in a cocoon of their own, safe from the world outside. But if Stiles wants to shout about them from a rooftop, he can picture being okay with that too. "It's up to you," Derek says.

Stiles makes a strangled sound, like he was expecting Derek to order him around.

"If you want to keep us quiet, I won't be a secret," Derek says. "You already told your dad." He leans in, kisses Stiles firmly. Stiles looks dazed by the time he's finished.

Stiles nods. "I'll think about it. No rush decisions." He tilts his head. "Any chance we _can_ nap before going back downstairs, though? Orgasms are so hard work."

"Yeah," Derek repeats. "Definitely hard."

Stiles elbows him in the stomach. "And you said _I_ would be the one making puns in bed?"

Derek shrugs. "Maybe I'll call Deaton. See if he has a Fred Flintstone onesie in his collection that I can borrow."

"Why?"

"So I can make your bed rock."

Stiles groans and burrows his head in the space where Derek's neck and shoulder meet, and he makes no sign that he's going to move any time soon.

Derek's very okay with that.

##

They do wake up after a nap, shower separately, re-dress in clean clothes, and this time Stiles borrows underwear — so Derek has to time coming back downstairs half an hour later, because there are some things a pack should never see, and his erection is definitely one of those things.

At least sweatpants are much easier than spandex on boners. And that's the least interesting thing Derek's learned in the last twenty-four hours.

When he comes back down, the werewolves are _still_ cleaning. Which means they probably stopped for a nap too. Derek can't bring himself to mind about it, which means he's either just as sex-stupid as Stiles, or the mental image of them all in a Batman-wearing puppy pile is amusing enough to wipe any irritation over the state of his loft.

Stiles, predictably, is hanging out with Scott. He's loose-limbed and happy, a smile lingering on his face. So much for their relationship remaining low-key. There's no _way_ anyone can look at Stiles and _not_ know he's in love.

It's endearing enough that Derek doesn't care if they all find out right now. At least then he could kiss Stiles. He thinks he may have a kissing-Stiles addiction now. Hopefully there is no cure.

"Dude," Scott blurts as morning light finally spills through the loft windows on the sluggishly moving werewolves as they scrape kobold guts off all the fixtures, "you gotta spill. Did something happen between you and that Batman guy? Danny says he saw him drag you out of the party."

"He did," Stiles says, shaking himself, but it does nothing to erase his smile. Oh, well. Maybe Stiles will smile for the rest of his life. Derek wouldn't mind seeing that. "We went on a date. That Deucalion interrupted."

"Too bad," Scott sighs.

"And then my dad."

"Ah," Scott says. "And considering the rest of your story, was that when Derek interrupted too?"

Stiles squints at Scott dubiously for a second, but then shrugs and nods. Derek hides a smile, even as Kira passes him a mop to join in with the clean-up. She looks at him, calculating. "Why are you so happy?" Kira hisses.

Derek shrugs and takes the mop, covertly watching Scott and Stiles.

"I'll find out," Kira says, sing-song, passing him a spray bottle of cleaning-fluid.

"Find out what?" Malia says, loudly, coming over and looking between Derek and Kira, and Scott and Stiles.

"Find out who Stiles is _dating,_ " Scott says, loudly enough to draw the attention of the whole pack.

"Stiles got a date?" Lydia says, sounding surprised. Stiles flips her the bird. Lydia pretends to catch it and put it in her pocket.

"The guy dressed as Batman last night," Scott says.

"Ohhhhh," Kira says, looking up at Derek. Derek grins sheepishly at her.

"Anyone know his real name?" Scott asks.

Derek glares at Kira. She squints at him, calculating, and then shrugs and nods. If Stiles decides on keeping their relationship quiet for a while, she'll keep the secret.

"Isn't it obvious?" Stiles asks, catching Derek's eye. Derek swallows but holds Stiles' gaze, smiling encouragingly. If Stiles wants to tell everyone, that's fine. Derek can cope with any decision, as long as Stiles is his. "Batman's real name is... Bruce Wayne."

"You _fucker,_ " Scott says, fondly annoyed, and he squirts Stiles with the spray bottle he's holding. Which naturally, leads Stiles to fighting back with the wet cloth he has. Which all naturally leads to a mass water fight with the whole pack involved.

Normally Derek would be annoyed, but today... Stiles grins at him across the loft before throwing half a bucket of water into Lydia's shrieking face. Yeah, today Derek can let anything pass. He's in love. That's the hero of the hour. Everything else is where it belongs: out-of-focus, kicked off to one side.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TV Tropes challenge at [Beacon-Hills](http://beacon-hills.livejournal.com) (PS join team hunter WE HAVE CAKE ~~the cake is a lie~~ , tell 'em mizzy2k sent ya ♥ we'd love to have you!) 
> 
> I drew as my tropes: sidekick, kissing under the influence, endless corridor, sympathetic magic and supervillain lair.  
> I started with sidekick and have eventually used all five as prompts.
> 
>  
> 
> How this story came about/why it's structured like it is/too much information so skip if you're not interested :):
> 
> I started writing this fic for a challenge, and then continued it in memory of my aunt. 
> 
> See, I used to write 2-3k words a day, easily, and then life started sucking ass more than usual, and I've been lucky since Christmas to manage 10k a month. If that. To go from 100k at least to 10k at the most is a massive drop and I felt the loss but didn't know how to get back to writing regularly again, especially as the life-sucking-ass thing reared its head and let me know things weren't going to change any time soon. I'd started to think I couldn't write at all. For someone who _wants_ to write all the time, that's not a great thought to be thinking.
> 
> And then... my aunt died. 
> 
> This isn't _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ , though. Because instead of launching me into a sad and slapstick woeridden adventure where I had to spend all my time evading Jim Carrey in an array of awesome make-up, her death reminded me of some things. That she always encouraged me to be naughty. To break the rules. To do what made me happy.
> 
> Writing makes me happy. And so I decided to look at my main writing rules. If she wanted me to break the rules, maybe those were the rules she meant. 
> 
> The main three:  
> 1\. Never write a flashback.  
> 2\. Never post a WIP (because you can't finish them.)  
> 3\. Never write a fic without outlining it first.
> 
> And with this fic so far, I've broken all three. This fic is not perfect. It's not the best thing I've ever written. It could easily qualify as the worst. But I'm writing. I'm here and I'm still writing. And I managed to finish it, too! \o/
> 
> But more importantly? I'm writing again. Thank you, Aunty C. I miss you. I love you. You saved me more times than you know. You are my hero. ♥
> 
> Thank you to everyone who joined me on the journey so far. It's been a total blast. ♥
> 
> EDIT: 15/05/2014. This is why I should outline. I had a major joke lined up and didn't use it! Woeeee. I'll try and use it in the next part. But basically, everyone in Beacon Hills had to repeat a year at school because Finstock accidentally summoned a demon with one of his lacrosse diagrams that messed up their exams for the lolz. Hence why they're all a year older than they should be.  
> Okay so basically it was just an excuse for Stiles not to be underage but it was a FUNNY EXCUSE.


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